


Metes and Bounds

by asecretchord



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drama & Romance, M/M, Not Epilogue Compliant, Post-Hogwarts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-08
Updated: 2014-08-08
Packaged: 2018-02-12 07:32:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 34,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2100966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asecretchord/pseuds/asecretchord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Auror Harry Potter appears to have the perfect life. He's married to his Hogwarts sweetheart and making a difference in the wizarding world. But his perfect life is missing the most important piece: Severus Snape. Sequel to <i>Final Examination</i>. It is not necessary to have read that first, but it helps. Dedicated to everyone who wanted more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Metes and Bounds

Waves lapped at the heels of Harry Potter's boots and his arms windmilled as he fought for balance. He stared up the face of the cliff to the outcropping above and he released his breath in an explosive puff of air. That had been close. Too close. He double-checked the Apparition coordinates he had calculated and winced. Another degree-second east and he'd have materialised at the edge of the cliff and tumbled backwards onto the rocks below.

He gave his heart a moment to stop racing and wrapped his scarlet cloak more tightly around himself as he glanced around the deserted rocky beach, the salty sea spray misting in his face. A large wave crashed against the jagged rocks that stood like teeth in the narrow cove that guarded the entrance to an angular cave that reminded Harry sharply of the Inferi cave. He shook off the frisson of fear and moved on. Pebbles crunched under his feet as he turned towards the south and counted out seventy-three paces, glancing periodically at the lighthouse that winked slowly, steadily, off shore.

This was the eighty-seventh lighthouse he had visited in the three years he'd been searching for Severus Snape. The forty-sixth cliff he'd nearly fallen from. The hundred and twelfth cave he'd seen from the shore. Since he'd begun his hunt, Harry had learned that Great Britain had over three hundred lighthouses and over 19,000 miles of coastline waiting to be explored. And that was only counting the major islands.

The mournful cry of a seagull diverted his attention from the windswept shore, and he stared out at an angry sea that chipped away, wave after wave, at the rocks that stood sentinel along the isolated beach head. The seagull swooped through grey skies and screamed again before vanishing behind a craggy rock that still clung to the face of the cliff.

He shook the moisture out his hair and estimated the distance to the top of the cliff. "Destination, deliberation, determination," he muttered to himself before turning on the spot, only to reappear up there with a sharp crack a split second later.

Harry braced against the wind and gazed around. A long stone wall clung to a gently sloping hill and vanished into a trickling burn. A copse of withering trees huddled together, their raggedy branches stretched out like thin fingers over barely glowing embers. Thin plants sent out wispy tendrils that tangled into a thick carpet of dull green and they scratched at Harry's boots as he trudged over the uneven earth.

There was no sign of a cottage, but in a land where nearly half the country was unplottable and a number of homes were under the protection of various charms and enchantments, Harry had learnt not to expect to see one. There were other signs to look for, and as an Auror with several years of experience behind him, he had become familiar with other, more subtle, signs of life. But there were other things that must be done, other steps to follow.

Harry pulled his wand and set it in the palm of his hand. "Point me," he whispered and waited until his wand had settled on North. He fixed his eyes on a spot on the horizon before extending his arm out and finding East. Selecting a line slightly before the midway point between the two, Harry began to count the steps to the shallow stream.

The wind came up and his cloak clung to his back, highlighting the width of his shoulders and the length of his legs. His damp hair clung to the nape of his neck, spilling an icy drop of water down his spine, but he shrugged it off. Once he'd travelled about a quarter mile, he turned a bit past east and continued. He cast an Impervious charm and waded through the stream with a small sigh, but continued on his way.

It had been more than three years since he'd taken the key he found amongst Snape's belongings to Gringotts and sorted through everything Snape had squirreled away in his vaults. One of the few things of any real value was the deed to a piece of property, but to Harry's dismay, the deed was harder to decipher than Hermione's copy of _Spellman's Syllabary_. It was written in an old-fashioned style of describing property that was incomprehensible to Harry.

The goblins refused to help and Ron suspected that they were still a bit sore about that tiny incident involving their ancient, decrepit dragon, a few small fires, and a couple of smashed pillars. Unspeakable Anthony Goldstein smuggled to Hermione classified maps of unplottable Britain because she asked and he’d always felt a bit guilty for not doing more during the War Against Voldemort. She and Ron brought them to Harry and Ginny's, and the four of them spent many a long weekend poring over the maps and comparing them to the sole description of the property they had.

Harry no longer had to carry the scrap of paper describing the boundaries of the property bequeathed to Snape by Albus Dumbledore. They were inscribed on his brain as permanently as 'I must not tell lies' was written on the back of his hand.

> _Beginning at a point on the shore line south forty seven meters from the centre of the present sixth-order light tower on said shore line opposite the centre of the present light, thence northeast seventy-seven degrees fifty one minutes three hundred meters on a line parallel to the longer side of the light-keeper's dwelling, thence east one hundred-eighteen degrees thirty minutes three hundred meters, then south one hundred seventy-seven degrees fifty-one minutes one hundred and seventy meters along the meandering stream unto the great oak tree, then southwest two hundred twenty-three degrees twenty seven minutes to the stone wall, thence westerly two hundred seventy-seven degrees to said shore line, thence in a north-westerly and northerly direction to a point on the prolongation of the western boundary on a line parallel to the shorter side of the light keeper's dwelling forty-six meters, thence north seventy-seven degrees fifty-one minutes west twenty-five meters more or less then along said shore line past the cave to the point of the beginning._

The deed was archaic, written sometime in the eighteenth or nineteenth century, and hadn't been updated since then. Harry had no idea if the stream still meandered. He didn't know if the oak tree still stood. He didn't know if the stones that created the wall had been carted off to repair parts of the lighthouse or the keeper's dwelling in the hundred and thirty some-odd years since the property had been described. He thought it likely that the cave remained, though that too could have been obscured by a landslide, but everything else was a bit dicey.

Through Neville's efforts, Harry could distinguish between oak and elm, beech and birch, pine and fir, but still tended to confuse chestnut and sycamore and truly did not care to learn any more about trees than he already knew. He thought the copse was primarily aspen, but it could be alder, though it certainly was not oak. Nevertheless, he continued to trudge what would have been the property line if this had been Snape's land.

Once Harry was back at the starting point, he fished around the inner pocket of his cloak and quickly sketched the property as he found it. The stream was fully encompassed within the boundaries and couldn't serve as a property line. The stone wall ran in the wrong direction. There was no indication any oak tree had ever stood on this earth. This was not the place he was searching for. He Apparated back to his small house nestled in the woods near Helga's Copse and marked another lighthouse off the list.

~*~

Monday morning arrived earlier than Harry expected and he threw off the covers with a low groan before flopping onto his back and staring at the ceiling wondering whether he should rethink his strategy regarding his hunt for Snape. He was tired of lighthouses and Apparating to empty beaches where nothing but the relentless sound of the sea welcomed him.

The lighthouses were the key to everything, as Hermione had so often reminded him. They were finite. They were catalogued. They were Muggle. If a lighthouse once stood, there was a record of it, even those that had fallen into disrepair and crumbled to the ground. There were too many streams and stone walls to keep track of, and Neville had laughed when Harry asked if there was a list of distinguished oak trees anywhere. He'd felt like a right fool for asking, but he attributed the question to exhaustion.

An hour later he strode into the ready room for the daily briefing, energised and ready to go. He slipped into the chair next to Ron and nodded his hellos to the rest of the Aurors as Robards began to speak. "We're receiving reports from the Muggle Liaison office that there have been some disturbances in the Whitechapel area." A wry grin appeared on his usually sombre face. "I'm as much in favour of frightening the tourists as the next bloke, but transfiguring lost scarves and mittens into hearts and livers might be carrying the joke a step too far. Kelner and Billingsley, see what you can find out.

"Next, we've heard rumours that someone is attempting to smuggle in a crate of Amazonian Runespoor. Now, I know next to nothing about Runespoor except that they're three-headed snakes and they come from Africa."

"They're also supposed to be popular with Dark wizards," volunteered Johnson. "A few of You-Know-Who's old crowd had them as familiars."

"Voldemort. His name was Voldemort," said Harry in a steely voice. "Or Tom, I suppose. He's been dead for five years and he's not coming back, so do you think we can end this 'You-Know-Who' shite?"

Robards' eyes narrowed. "Potter, you're a Parselmouth—"

"I _was_ a Parselmouth. I'm not anymore. Not since I defeated Voldemort." For a moment, Harry considered directing Robards' attention toward Ron, but Ron wasn't fluent in the language. In fact, the only word Ron knew was 'Open'.

"All the same, I'm putting you and Weasley on it." Robards' expression softened at seeing the dismay on Harry's face. "It's not a crap assignment, Potter. We've a few leads, thanks to Granger, and you've met one or two of our suspects already."

Harry slouched down and attempted to hide his frustration. His eyes slid towards Ron, expecting to commiserate at being handed yet another crap assignment—despite Robards assurance that it would involve genuine police work—but found Ron gnawing on his lip, his gaze unfocussed. Harry recognised the dawning comprehension in Ron's eyes as he followed some invisible set of dots to their natural conclusion. His own mind a blank, Harry wondered what Ron had come up with.

"I know where we should start," said Ron, and gave Harry a quick nod that Harry took to mean Ron would explain later. As Robards delegated a few more assignments and reviewed the current list of 'be on the look-outs', Harry followed his own trail of mental breadcrumbs to see where it led him.

Except for some repeated violations of the Statute of Secrecy, they hadn't come across anything truly out of the ordinary for several months. A wizard by the name of Cameron Houlihan had developed an odd penchant for hovering on his broom near the top of the building known as the Gherkin just after quitting time on the odd Wednesday afternoon. Harry and Ron issued him a citation and warned him that repeated offences could land him in Azkaban, but the Ministry hadn't the resources to follow up. Other than that, it was the same old thing: items of value pilfered by sticky fingers, knock-off potions that didn't work as advertised, disturbances of the peace, and a few odd tavern brawls for spice.

A paper aeroplane collided with Ron's head as they left the ready room and he snatched it out of the air to read it. He sighed. "Fatemeh Cherazaie has gone missing."

Harry's eyes lost some of their sparkle. "The old lady with the kneazle?"

Ron nodded grimly. Fatemeh Cherazaie was a lovely old witch who was nearing her 178th birthday. Her husband had died two years previously and her children (and grandchildren and great-grandchildren) were scattered to the four corners of the earth. She lived by herself in a crumbling cottage on the edge of Sherwood and she thought Ron was a friend of her grandmother's and lived on the next lane. In talking to her neighbours, they had come to learn that the kneazle she regularly reported as missing was a pet she’d owned when she first married almost 150 years ago.

Ron closed the clasps on his cape and tucked the message into a small pouch on his belt. "She should be with her children. Or her grandchildren. She shouldn't be alone, not at her age. It's not right."

Harry nodded as he adjusted the vambraces that fitted over his sleeves. "I'm always afraid we're going to find her dead. Her family has been after her to move in with them for ages and she insists there's no reason to go to St Mungo's, so I'm not sure what more we can do except check on her every once in awhile and make certain she's alright." He sheathed his wand and grabbed his cloak, ready to start his watch.

Harry liked the way he looked in his Auror uniform. The close-fitting black trousers and shirt made his green eyes stand out. The charmed waistcoat that turned most spells added a bit of bulk to his chest and the dark dragonhide vambraces and greaves gave him the appearance of long limbs that he did not possess. He wore fingerless gloves when the weather was nice and lined kidskin gloves when the snows were raging. His scarlet cloak kept wind and water off his back, yet managed to keep him cool on the few days each year when London stewed in its own juices.

"Brooms today, you reckon?" he asked, pausing at the door to the broom locker. Every Auror was issued a modified Meteor 7, which barely kept up with the Firebolt 911 (the designer was a Muggle sports car enthusiast) that Ginny flew as Chaser with the Holyhead Harpies. It was also about as manoeuvrable as a brick mortared into a wall, but as Robards continued to point out, the Auror Division wouldn't get better brooms until they gave the Ministry a more pressing reason to have them than 'this broom is crap.' For someone who loved to fly as much as Harry did, the broom was downright insulting.

Ron gave Harry a speculative glance. "It's a long way to Sherwood, mate. I reckon we should Apparate to see to Mrs Cherazaie. Once we've taken care of her, we'll come back for our brooms and patrol. It's been awhile since we've been out around Bristol and it's the most likely route for smuggling something in, so I'm thinking west today."

"Fair enough." Harry double-checked the Apparition coordinates and then he and Ron joined the queue for the Disapparition pad.

"Heard from Ginny lately?" asked Ron as they waited their turn.

"She firecalled last night. She's in Montrose until Thursday, and then she's travelling to Appleby and after that she's up in Yorkshire somewhere. Then it's a week off before she goes back to Holyhead." Harry glanced at Ron. "You know the fixtures as well as I do, maybe better." He stepped onto the Disapparition pad, closed his eyes for a second and vanished with a sharp crack.

"Will she be coming home, do you know?" asked Ron as he materialised by Harry's side. "Mum's making noise again, so if she's going to be around, I think the two of you ought to spend an evening or two at the Burrow. Maybe that will quiet her a little."

"We can't. Ginny's spending her holiday in the Carolinas with Thierry." Harry headed into the forest, the dappled sunlight so different from that of the Forbidden Forest that surrounded Hogwarts. "He's good for her and she's happy with him—or would be if they could go public."

"Yeah, that's not likely to happen. Still..." Ron's voice trailed off and he gave Harry a meaningful look as their booted feet crunched over the fallen leaves strewn across the path. "Mum's worried about the two of you—again. You know, you really ought to come clean, at least to the rest of the family."

"I can't. You know I can't. Besides, it's only until I find Snape. That's the deal."

"When—"

"If," said Harry firmly.

"When," repeated Ron, "the truth leaks out, it's going to get ugly. For you. For her. For me and Hermione, come to that. I understand why you're doing what you're doing—you don't want to come out and Thierry will never be welcome in England, not for a hundred years."

"It was a fucking Quidditch match," said Harry with a sigh. "Thierry intercepted a pass and pulled up hard and left to head towards England's goal post. He didn't know Miller was there and he sure as hell didn't mean to knock him off his broom. The entire rest of the world knows it was an accident—except for everyone in England. You've met him, Ron. He was as gutted as everyone else." That England lost the match to Germany was salt in an already horrifying wound. Miller fell eighty feet to the pitch below and shattered his legs, his pelvis, and his spine. He would never walk again, much less fly a broom.

"He's a nice enough guy—for a Hun," said Ron. They rounded the curve in the path and opened the gate to Mrs Cherazaie's garden. "But what about you, Harry? When are you going to stop searching for a ghost and find a decent bloke of your own?"

"He's not a ghost—and can we not talk about this today? You're not gay, so you don't know what it's like." Harry lifted his hand to knock on the front door.

"You don't know what it's like either, but I know I'm barking up the wrong tree trying to get you to see reason." Ron gave a brief nod and placed his hands behind his back as Harry knocked. "Mrs Cherazaie? It's Auror Weasley. I'm here with Harry Potter."

There was no answer from within the cottage and Ron peered in a nearby window while Harry knocked again. "Hello? Mrs Cherazaie?" He cupped his hand against the dusty glass and tried to see inside. "I don't see her."

Harry frowned and knocked again, but there was only silence. "I'll go around back. Maybe she's in the garden looking for Mouseby." He left Ron knocking at the door and followed the narrow path to the back of the house, stretching up on his tiptoes to peek over the tall fence. The gate was unlatched, so Harry opened it and went through.

The back garden was a tangle of brambles and overgrown vines. The lawn was yellowed in spots and was waging a losing battle against an infestation of dandelions and oxalis. As he walked across the overgrown lawn, little burrs clung to the back of Harry's trousers and wormed their way under the leg of his trousers to attach themselves to the line of sock that rose above his boots. His red cloak snagged on a thorny bush and he sighed at the spindly chrysanthemums and rhododendron that were being choked out of their beds. He swatted at a cloud of tiny gnats that swarmed at his face when he splashed through a puddle created by a leaking hosepipe. 

Harry tried the back door and found it unlocked, but he closed it again and circled back around the house to see how Ron was faring. His heart skipped a beat and his mouth went suddenly dry when he saw Ron leaning against the door jamb waiting for him. "I don't like this," said Harry as he climbed the three steps to the small porch. "What time did she contact us?"

Ron patted his pockets and pulled out the message. "Not quite an hour ago."

"The back door's unlocked. Do you reckon...?" Harry let the question hang for a moment, but Ron pulled his wand and pointed it at the door.

" _Alohomora_." There was a click and the door swung open a few inches.

Harry cast a wordless Illumination charm and stepped inside. In the month or so since they had visited last the cottage had deteriorated substantially. There were back issues of the _Daily Prophet_ scattered all over the floor. Books lay face down, their pages crumpled under their own weight. Half-finished cups of tea dotted every surface and Harry spotted a number of plates of forgotten food, several of which were covered in a thick layer of mould. Veils of cobwebs clung to the corners and dust coated every surface, except for the small trail leading to the kitchen, and Harry was almost certain he saw a Doxy scuttle into hiding.

"Check the bedroom," whispered Harry, his throat tight. It was his worst nightmare: that Mrs Cherazaie had died alone, and his hand began to tremble slightly with nerves. As Ron moved through the sitting room, Harry sneezed violently and suddenly found himself at the end of Ron's wand.

"Merlin!" Ron sheathed his wand and gave Harry a sheepish look. "Sorry, mate. Wasn't expecting that."

"Help. Edwin? Is that you?" came a quavering voice from the other room. "Help me. Help."

Harry and Ron followed the voice and dashed into the bedroom to find Mrs Cherazaie on the floor beside the bedstead, her arm wedged uncomfortably in the small space between the bedframe and the night table. Ron crouched down and laid a comforting hand in the middle of her back as Harry pulled his wand. "Don't move, Mrs Cherazaie. We're here. Harry, can you levitate the nightstand so I can move her?"

Harry cast a quick diagnostic spell and nodded. "I don't think anything's broken. Mrs Cherazaie, this is likely to hurt a little, but try to stay still, alright?"

The elderly woman turned rheumy eyes on Ron and tried to smile. "I was reaching for my carpet slippers and I tripped. You must think me such a silly old woman, getting tangled in my own furniture," she explained in a shaky voice. "I was going out to look for Feather. She's missing." Her eyes filled with tears and Harry's heart broke a little. Not Mouseby this time, but Feather had died long before he was born.

"Don't worry about Feather," murmured Ron, his voice soothing. "Now let's get you up. Ready, Harry?"

Harry gave a sharp nod of his head and slowly, carefully, levitated the night table up and away from Mrs Cherazaie. As soon as she was free, Ron floated her over to the bed. She was a wisp of a woman, barely five feet tall and weighing no more than a toothpick. Her wrinkled skin was the colour of cafe au lait and her silver hair was coming loose from the untidy bun at the nape of her neck.

"Let me take a look at that arm." Ron eased her housecoat away from her shoulder and winced. Mrs Cherazaie's right arm was mottled with dark purple splotches from elbow to shoulder, especially mid-biceps where her arm had been pinned. He winced. "I know you don't want to hear this, Mrs Cherazaie, but I really think you should let a Healer examine this."

Mrs Cherazaie's eyes filled with tears. "But Feather might come back and she'd be all alone. Who would take care of her? I can't leave her, poor thing." 

Harry and Ron exchanged a look. "Mrs Cherazaie," said Harry after a moment. "Why don't you let Ron help you to St Mungo's and I'll search for Feather? When I find her, I'll bring her here and make certain she has food and water. I know that she'll be fine until you're back."

"Please, Mrs Cherazaie," implored Ron. "I'd feel much better if I knew you were being seen to properly. I'll bet St Mungo's will have you patched up straight away and you'll be back here faster than you can say Wingardium Leviosa."

The scepticism in Mrs Cherazaie's expression faded to one of resignation and a steady stream of tears trickled down her weathered cheeks. "Very well. If you think it best, Edwin." She moved to rise from the bed but Ron forestalled her movement.

"Why don't you rest a bit while Harry and I contact St Mungo's? It won't take but a few minutes for them to get here and we can look for your kneazle while we wait."

Harry stepped out of the room and used his charmed mirror to contact the Dispatch Office, who would then arrange for medical transport for the elderly woman. Knowing it would take a little while for the request to work through the system, he started cleaning up the sitting room, sending dirty dishes to the kitchen and books back to their shelves. He stacked the old newspapers, gathered up her many bags of knitting, and Vanished the cobwebs, apologising to any spiders he might have inadvertently disturbed. 

As he applied cleaning charms to the floor, he couldn't help but think of Snape. Was he alone in some isolated cottage, brewing his heart out while his dwelling crumbled to ruins around him? Or had he gone Muggle, spending his days with his hooked nose buried in a book and his nights penning angry letters under an assumed name to the editor of _The Daily Mail_? Did he have a boyfriend or a partner or something? Did he know Harry was searching?

It bothered Harry that Snape had figured out his orientation before he had. He couldn't point to any specific behaviour that marked him as gay, other than his disastrous relationship with Cho Chang. He'd been appropriately jealous of Ginny's boyfriends during sixth year and he'd enjoyed the kisses they'd shared, though he never quite figured out why they left him feeling empty inside. The only bloke he'd lusted after had been the Half-Blood Prince, and upon discovering the identity of said Prince had felt quite ill, though the list of reasons for feeling that way would stretch from Hogwarts to Diagon Alley.

In his heart of hearts, Harry knew Snape would slice him to ribbons upon learning the truth about his marriage. It fell markedly short of Snape's exhortation to live before setting off in search of him, an admonition Harry had ignored, much in the same way he had ignored every single piece of advice given to him by someone older and wiser. That Harry's marriage was a sham was the reason behind Ron's latest entreaty to give up the charade.

"I reckon the floor's clean."

Harry jumped about a foot and stared wild-eyed at Ron and took a deep breath while waiting for his heart to slow. He glanced at the spot he'd been aiming cleaning spells at and grimaced when he saw that he'd cleaned the varnish off the floor. "I reckon so. Has St Mungo's arrived yet, do you know?"

"I worry about you, mate." With a roll of his eyes, Ron opened the door for the transport team before they had to knock for a third time. He directed them to the small bedroom at the rear of the cottage and accompanied them inside with a last, lingering glance at Harry.

Harry felt his ears burn. He knew he had become obsessed with finding Snape, but regardless of how daunting the task, he refused to give up. It was hard to articulate why finding Snape was so important; fortunately Ron and Hermione had long since given up asking him why. Why he had married Ginny. Why he wasn't dating. Why he wasn't hooking up. Why he felt certain he would never understand himself until he'd had the opportunity to lay some ghosts to rest. Only Snape could help him do that.

"Sorry," he mumbled. "I was just thinking." He pointed his wand at the gathers at the top of the lace curtains, tied back with gaily printed ribbons, and siphoned away the dust, wishing he could remember what Molly used on Doxies. As the St Mungo's crew carried Mrs Cherazaie out in a litter, Ron at her side, Harry organised the contents of the end table nearest the doily-clad sofa so she would be able to find the knitting projects she'd been working on when she returned.

The transport staff at St Mungo's was amongst the very best of the Wizarding world, though few witches and wizards knew it. They were the first on the scene when disaster struck, able to diagnose and stabilise a host of illnesses and injuries until they were able to get their patients to St Mungo's. They were highly skilled at dual Side-Along Apparition, able to whisk away themselves and critical patients from any point in Britain back to London in a single hop. If anyone should be thought to be heroic, it was them.

Hearing the sharp crack of double Apparition, Harry paused in his self-imposed labours and waited for Ron to reappear. "Rather than search for a non-existent cat, why don't we tidy the kitchen before we head back to London? I don't want Mrs Cherazaie to come back to a place that looks like a potions experiment gone wrong."

Ron sighed and sent the teacups, saucers and dishes floating to the kitchen. "You can't fix everything that's wrong in the world, mate. St Mungo's will contact Wizarding Services, who will contact her family and that will be that."

"None of her family is nearby and this is her home. I won't see her turned out of it."

"Harry, we need to go."

"Ten minutes. Just...ten minutes. You don't have to help. I'll do what I can." Harry stalked into the kitchen and filled the sink with hot soapy water before setting a charm on the dishes to wash and dry themselves while he tackled the month's worth of grime that had built up since the last time he had surreptitiously tidied the kitchen. It wasn't that he had any particularly strong feelings towards Mrs Cherazaie, but he acknowledged that he was terribly afraid of being left behind. Of being forgotten. Of being unwanted. This was his way of ensuring that wouldn't happen.

~*~

As it turned out, Houlihan was at the top of Ron's list of persons of interest. "Think about it, Harry," he said over lunch. "When we've come across him, it's around the Gherkin about six o'clock or so and only ever on Wednesdays. Why there? Why Wednesdays? And why aren't we hearing from the London police or Scotland Yard about it? Those sorts of complaints get handed to us by the Liaison Office all the time."

"Like the zombies on the Victoria line?" asked Harry with a grin.

Ron groaned. "Merlin, what a mess that was. I reckon it will be awhile before Flint has another 'Come as Your Favourite Dark Creature' party again. Inferi on the Tube, vampires in Harrods, a banshee at the top of the Eye—"

"That one was real."

"Well, yeah, but the Muggles didn't know that, did they?" Ron took a bite of his sarnie, chewed thoroughly and swallowed. "Anyway, I think we ought to follow Houlihan around for a bit, see if we can get a sense of what he's doing."

"I'll start the background on him when we finish up today."

To Harry's surprise, he preferred the investigative part of his job to patrolling. Flying around Wizarding Britain under Disillusionment and Notice-Me-Not charms lost its appeal once he learnt that the Auror Corps had patrols on foot and in the skies day and night and in every kind of weather imaginable. Last year, he and Ron drew Christmas and New Year's duty and missed both holidays, spending both days locking up witches and wizards who over-imbibed and made life miserable for those around them. Given that they hadn't advanced very much in seniority, it was likely they'd pull that duty again this year.

No, it was much more enjoyable to secret himself away in the Ministry archives and ferret through reams and reams of parchment to see what he could discover about his suspect. It was always a source of amazement to him that the Ministry was able to find anything at all. Every single department had its own method of filing information and there was no system that linked it all together. Birth records were filed by mother's maiden name. Educational records were stored by OWL year. Tax records were simply ledgers of payments received and from whom. And Auror records....

Someone somewhere had decided that the only way the Wizengamot would know which laws were effective and which ones weren't was to keep records by the statute broken. Harry’s charge for underage use of magic was filed under I.S.S. 5276/950208/UUM/15/KT20-7. It had taken him three weeks to find it—and that was when he knew what he was looking for. It was nearly impossible to research the background of a specific person without knowing first what they might have done.

After hearing about his frustration, Hermione had come to his rescue and taught him a charm she used for her innumerable research projects. "It's a locator spell. All you need do is to identify a key word or phrase and every scroll, volume or file that contains it will start to glow. Then use a focussed Summoning Charm to retrieve only those scrolls."

"And all this time we thought you were a genius," said Harry after an hour's practise. "Someday, I'll have all this sorted and catalogued. That way, when we bring someone in, we'll know if we've dealt with him or her before." He, with Ron, quickly taught the spell to the other Aurors and was praised from the lowliest trainee to Shacklebolt himself, protesting all the while that he'd had next to nothing to do with it.

It was quiet down in the bowels of the Ministry and Harry was able to work without interruption, just another drone buried by the mountains of paperwork the daily activities of governing a small nation generated. He supposed the anonymity was relaxing, though his fame was more a matter of course than overt adoration. He could show his face in public and receive nothing more than a smile or two. A tip of the hat. A nod of the head.

Harry started a file and began filling in the essential information while he ate: Cameron Dougal Houlihan, age 32, born in Dunfermline of a wizard and a Muggle. Hufflepuff. Took O.W.Ls in Astronomy, Divination, Charms, Care of Magical Creatures and Ancient Runes. Was a bit of a disaster at Transfiguration and Herbology. Did no better in History of Magic than Harry had done. Had been employed at Magical Menagerie after leaving Hogwarts, and then left without notice to work for Stubbins & Groate in Knockturn Alley procuring marginally legal potions ingredients. The shop closed during the war and Harry couldn't find any record of employment after that.

After another hour or so of poking around miscellaneous records (Houlihan had once applied for a license to drive the Knight Bus), Harry took another look at the O.W.L. results and wrote down the names of some of the people who had attended Hogwarts with Houlihan. He and Ron would speak with some of them to see if they knew anything more about the bloke than Harry had been able to discover thus far. He called it a night and Flooed home.

The week shaped up to be like every other week. Harry and Ron alternated between patrolling and speaking to people who had had some knowledge of Houlihan and were unlikely to encounter him. The owner of Magical Menagerie could barely recall him, but remembered quite vividly that the Puffskeins hissed whenever he came near them.

"He was rather fond of the reptiles, though," said the old shopkeeper. "Particularly the Streelers and the Orange Snails. Wanted to see if their trails could be used as fertiliser. Thought the idea a bit daft myself, but odder things have happened." Ron and Harry exchanged a glance and moved on.

Mrs Cherazaie was released from St Mungo's on Thursday, which was their day off before they started their night shift work on Friday, and Harry spent the morning cleaning the rest of the cottage before she came home.

~*~

It was the second Wednesday in March and nearing sunset, or so Harry and Ron figured. The cloud cover was slate grey and miles thick, the skies so leaden that Harry thought he'd likely injure himself if he flew into them. He and Ron had hoped to use the sun as cover, but instead they found themselves casting Warming charms and drying themselves off when their cloaks grew heavy enough to pull them off their brooms.

It was cold and damp, misty rather than rainy, and just wet enough to plaster Harry's hair against his scalp and send the occasional droplet of water shivering down his spine. If Houlihan didn't make his regularly scheduled appearance at the Gherkin, Harry was going to punch something. "Think he'll show?" he shouted to Ron, his teeth chattering so hard it came out as ten syllables.

Ron flew to the roof of a nearby skyscraper and ducked behind some sort of shed. "He'd better," he replied. He shuddered as warmth enveloped him and he cast the same charm at Harry. "Remind me why we wanted to be Aurors?" He crouched down and positioned himself so he could see the top of the pickle-shaped building a short distance away.

"Because the uniform comes with this brilliant red cloak and very cool body armour?" Harry grinned and shook the water out of his hair. He combed it in place with his fingers and wondered why he bothered. The only adjective ever used to describe it was 'messy' and it was well past that now.

"Figures you'd want a job where you'd look good." Ron turned his head and glanced despairingly at the fastenings of his cloak. "It clashes with my hair."

"Everything clashes with your hair," quipped Harry.

"Blue doesn't and green's not bad. But the armour does make me look good."

"You're six feet tall. Everything makes you look good," said Harry with an envious sigh. He settled in next to Ron, his broom near at hand, and kept his eyes peeled. "At least we both know I'm the brains of the outfit."

"Best not let Hermione hear you say that," said Ron as he squinted at something. "Bird or bloke, do you reckon?"

Harry arched a brow and snorted, though he too squinted as he tried to make out what was flying around a bit north and east of their target. Ron had better eyesight, no surprise there, but Harry was usually the first to spot an object in the air. Either he was bored or tired; both were the bane of decent police work.

"Wings, not tits, you git." 

"Did I say anything?" Still, Harry mounted his broom and prepared to kick off. "I think it's him. Too fast to be a bird—and no wings." His eyes cut over to Ron and he grinned. "Wands out. You Portkey him and I'll take damage control." Seconds later they were in the air, flying in a wide arc to circle around behind their quarry.

As they watched, their suspect landed on a terrace at the top of the building and Harry put a closed fist up in the air before pointing up. They soared higher and hoped they'd not been spotted as they tried to choose a vantage point close enough to watch.

To their surprise, Houlihan stepped off his broom and paced until a youngish woman in a Muggle suit the colour of cranberries stepped out and began to speak with him. She was carrying a dark folder of some sort and pulled some sheets of paper out of it.

"Are we close enough to use Hearing Enhancement charms?" whispered Ron and Harry shook his head.

"No, but maybe he'll take those papers with him."

"Why's he meeting with a Muggle? They don't have Runespoors, do they?"

"Three-headed snakes? Only as pictures in the _Daily Mail_ ," scoffed Harry. "No, Muggles have no use for Runespoor except as a curiosity. They're one of the few magical beasts that they can actually see, though most Muggles think they're nothing more than mutants or doctored photographs."

"Muggles are weird," concluded Ron. As they looked on, the Muggle woman led Houlihan through a heavy glass door, though he did take a moment to tuck his broom behind a potted plant and cast a Concealing Charm on it. He growled softly and jerked his head back towards the building they'd used as a perch.

"She must be a Squib," said Harry once they were concealed again behind the mechanical shed that served as cover. "Even Crabbe and Goyle were intelligent enough not to use magic in front of Muggles and he flew up there on a broom. Hard to pass that off as a trick of the eye."

They settled in once again to wait and the evening air grew heavy as the sky began to darken. Harry pulled his cloak around his shoulders and shivered. He was afraid to cast another warming charm, since he thought he'd fall asleep if he became too comfortable and he didn't want to miss Houlihan's departure from the terrace.

"Reckon he's having tea or a nip of something stronger?" asked Ron before blowing on his fingers to thaw them out a little.

"Let's hope it's the latter," muttered Harry. "We could use him cold and stupid about now." The one thing they had going for them was that they were accustomed to the cold. It would hit Houlihan like a tentacle from the Giant Squid and Harry was counting on that human instinct to be reluctant to leave a nice, warm place for the biting wind that came at the tail end of winter.

"Hey. Is that him?" Harry grabbed his broom and crept forward. The light from the restaurant made details hard to spot, but it looked to him as though the door to the terrace had opened and the cranberry lady had walked out. She wasn't alone.

"He's heading for the corner where he stashed the broom," confirmed Ron. "Let's ride."

They soared upwards and rode slowly, trying to angle their approach so Houlihan wouldn't spot them. As they had hoped, he made his goodbyes and flew off the terrace, heading south towards Charing Cross Road and the entrance to magical London.

Before Houlihan could cross the barrier, Ron and Harry were on either side of him. "Auror Corps," shouted Harry. "We'd rather not Stun you so bring it down in front of the Ministry."

Startled, Houlihan jerked immediately to the left and dove—precisely five feet. Knowing it was coming, Ron was already in the glide path of Houlihan's broom and reached over to grab the broomstick. He cast a wordless charm that slaved Houlihan's broom to his. "In case you get lost," he said with a grin. "Harry's Arresto Momentum spell isn't that good, so I'd hold on tight if I were you."

"But I ain't done nuffin' wrong!" protested Houlihan.

"Then it will be a short interview," said Harry with a grin. The three of them entered the public toilets that led to the Ministry atrium. As Aurors, they used stall marked for the disabled to ensure that Houlihan arrived where he was supposed to and didn't try to affect an escape. It was short work to escort him to an interrogation room after that.

Once inside, Ron patted him down quickly, taking into custody Houlihan's wand, broom, and the papers he'd received from the unknown woman. Harry spread them across the table and examined them. "This is a permit application," he said in confusion, "a Muggle application. To import snakes, lizards, turtles and other reptiles from Brazil into London."

Ron took the papers from Harry and glanced over them. "Don't see Runespoor listed here."

"You don't list magical creatures on a Muggle form. Are you both barking?" Houlihan rolled his eyes and shook his head. "Why'm I here, anyway? It ain't a crime to speak wiv a Squib."

"No," agreed Harry pleasantly, "not at all. But it is a crime to violate the International Statute of Secrecy and flying your broom in plain view of Muggles definitely falls under that scheme. We've warned you about this."

"And we told you that the next time we caught you doing that we'd bring you in," added Ron. "So here you are." He placed his palms on the table and leaned forward, staring directly into Houlihan's hazel eyes. "I'm waiting to hear why you shouldn't get thirty days in Azkaban."

Houlihan's eyes widened. "Azkaban? For visiting me cousin?"

"Your cousin?" Harry pulled out his pad of parchment and scribbled a note. "If she's a Squib we'll have record of her. What's her name?"

There was a long silence while Houlihan looked back and forth between them, as if weighing the consequences of not answering. "Ashleigh Sommers, though she's married now. Took her husband's name. She was Ashleigh Sturgis before that. Her mum is my mum's sister."

Something about the name niggled at Harry's memory. "You're related to Podmore Sturgis?" he asked as Ron thumped him on the thigh with his fist. His eyes flickered over to his partner before returning to Houlihan, who was staring at him blankly.

"I don't know who that is."

"It's not important," interjected Ron hastily. "But don't go anywhere while we check on your cousin." He gestured to Harry and opened the door for him. Once through it, he cast a hasty Silencing Charm and took a couple of steps down the hall.

Puzzled, Harry followed. "Are we really going to check on his cousin now? You've been in Records. We'll be a month in there before we find anything."

"The bloke's name is Sturgis Podmore and he was in the Order," said Ron as he Summoned a file folder from a nearby desk. He would return it later. "And I'm giving Houlihan a chance to get nervous." He ran a broad hand through thick red hair. "Why does he want to import snakes?"

"No idea, not 'til we ask him, at any rate." Harry started back towards the interview room and leaned against the door, waiting for Ron's signal to go back in. "And I knew that name sounded familiar, but I couldn't recall where I'd heard it before. I doubt Podmore wouldn't want to know I keep getting him confused with Pius Thicknesse, and now I'm thinking he's part of a family with Squibs."

"And here I'm trying to recall if there's anyone in the Wizarding world you've not met yet."

"If I haven't, Ginny has," replied Harry with a crooked grin. "The price of fame—and naturally, I don't remember more than a few of them."

"I thought fame cost a lot more. Merlin knows you've never enjoyed it. Never really spent any of it, either, except when it comes to Sn—" He stopped speaking at Harry's panicked expression. "You cleared his name is all I'm saying." He stepped closer and whispered, "Relax, mate. We're the only ones here."

It took a few seconds for Harry's heart rate to return to normal and he kicked himself for reacting at all. Snape lived in his heart and his dreams. No one other than the four of them knew Snape was alive and Harry planned to keep it that way for as long as Snape wanted it. Whether he made a miraculous resurrection would only ever be Snape's decision. Right now, though, he had a job to do and he needed to focus on Houlihan and his interest in Amazonian wildlife.

"Let's get back to work." Harry took the folder from Ron, pushed his way back into the room, and returned to his chair. He leaned back and opened the folder, reading an interoffice memorandum about the necessity of requisitioning supplies in triplicate before the order would be fulfilled. "Says here your family's been in Slytherin for about as long as the Malfoys have been."

"We've never!" exploded Houlihan. "We've been nearly all Hufflepuff, 'cept for my great-uncle who was in Ravenclaw and the odd Gryffindor now and again. Most of my family returned to Ireland during the War, but me and my brother stayed. We might not have been fighting You-Know-Who directly, but we were never Dark. We're just normal folk, going about our business, and keeping our noses clean."

"If you're not Dark," said Ron, "then what do you want with Runespoor?"

Houlihan reached out and tapped his finger on the permit application. "Do you see Runespoor listed there anywhere?"

"You said it wouldn't be listed on a Muggle form," said Harry. "And we know someone is trying to bring a new species of Runespoor into the country. Either you know who it is, or you're planning to import them yourself. Which is it?"

To no one's surprise, Ron was glaring daggers at Houlihan while Harry continued to wear his usual amiable expression: interested, open, friendly, easy to speak with or confide in. "Look," pleaded Houlihan, "there's nothing wrong with Runespoor. They're just misunderstood is all. They're pretty friendly as far as snakes go. Now, take your average cobra. Those snakes have a bit of an attitude to them. Venomous, they are, and a bit cowardly at that.

"But then you have your pythons and constrictors. They're friendly-like. Social, as far as snakes go. Have a bit of a sense of humour to them. Most of the pythons I've met like to toy with their food, scare 'em a bit before they snack on 'em. Constrictors always think they're a bit bigger than they are and they're always a bit surprised when they figure out they can't just squeeze the life out of you."

"Guess he never met Nagini," whispered Ron.

"You-Know-Who's snake wasn't like them others," protested Houlihan. "There's bad snakes just like there's bad people is all I'm sayin', but snakes aren't born Dark any more than people are. They're _made_ Dark, usually by someone keepin' 'em as pets without understanding their nature."

"Merlin, he sounds like Hagrid," muttered Ron

"Good bloke, Hagrid. I 'spect he's right good at teachin' Care of Magical Creatures," said Houlihan. "I had Kettleburn, but he'd lost a leg to a Graphorn and he wasn't as inclined to show us the more interesting beasts. Anyway, I'm not wanting to keep them snakes as pets. That's not what this is about."

"Then help us out, Cameron. What is this about? What do you want with..." Harry consulted the list. "Anacondas and vipers, amongst other things?"

Houlihan regarded them both with suspicion and he gnawed on his cheek while he decided what to say. Beads of sweat dotted Houlihan's brow and his hazel eyes darted continuously between Harry, Ron and the door. He tapped his fingers nervously and Harry suspected that if Houlihan had a quill in his hand he'd twirl it. "You had Snape for Potions, right?" he said finally.

Harry willed himself not to move. He kept his eyes focussed sharply on Houlihan as he gave a sharp nod. "Everyone who attended Hogwarts in the '80s and '90s had Professor Snape. What of it?"

"Then you know how he was always on about the ingredients that go into potions, wasn't he? Always worryin' about whether you were mincing or chopping and whether you put the ground scarab beetles in before or after you add the lionfish spines."

"So Snape was a nightmare of a professor," said Ron. "What has that to do with importing reptiles?"

"We only brewed the easy stuff, didn't we? But the potioneers who work for St Mungo's and the Ministry are making potions that are way more complicated. They're even pickier about what goes in 'em than that old Greasy Git was." Harry scowled, but Houlihan's eyes grew animated. "But here's the thing, there's like six or seven herbologists who have hothouses where they grow things for the apothecaries and Potions Guild, but there's no one in all of Great Britain who has a Herpetology House for ingredients, 'til me."

Ron and Harry exchanged a long look. "You mean to say that there's no local source for, I don't know, ashwinder eggs?" asked Harry.

Houlihan shook his head. "They all have to be imported. All the venom, all the scales, all the mucous—and I'm working on adding amphibians and mollusks to the mix. I've been speaking a bit with Hagrid—he knows tonnes about snakes and lizards and such—and I already have a client list. Once I get my stock imported, then I can start supplying the potioneers with quality ingredients. I'll have the entire market.

"That," Houlihan tapped the permit, "is the beginning. As I said, Ashleigh is a solicitor and she's helping me with the inspections and regulations and such. There's so many rules," he said with a moan. He dragged his hand through his hair and looked hopefully at Harry. "You could probably help with the Ministry side. Hagrid thought I should just bring 'em in and try not to get caught, but St Mungo's will only buy ingredients through approved vendors, so I've got to get all my owls in a row."

"Well," said Harry slowly, "I know Hagrid means well, but he has a funny idea about what's dangerous and what's not. At any rate, I'm not sure I'd take business advice from him, but he does know quite a bit about creatures.

"Now, Ron's wife works in the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures Department. If anyone can help you with the required permits, it's Hermione. We'll make certain you have her card, but on one condition."

Ron put his face close to Houlihan's and stared into his eyes. "No more flying where Muggles can see you. If we find you flying up to meet your cousin again, we'll make certain your permit is denied and your reptiles returned to South America."

"I'll also inform the Potions Guild and St Mungo's potioneers that you're unlicensed and anyone purchasing from you is looking at a three-year term in Azkaban," added Harry. "Follow the rules, though, and we'll see that you have an honest shot at success. Fair enough?"

Houlihan nearly wept with happiness and Harry took that as a yes.

~*~

The relentless screaming of the teakettle startled Harry out of a sound sleep and he leapt from his bed in a panic. Bolting down the stairs, he struggled to remember putting the kettle on and pulled up short as he came up empty-handed. Or empty-headed. He wasn't quite certain. The shrill whistle faded and silence echoed in the narrow stairwell.

It was at that moment that Harry became aware that he was stark naked and that Ginny must be home. Turning swiftly, he hurried back into his bedroom and hastily donned a dressing gown before vanishing into the bathroom to make himself presentable.

It was at a much more dignified pace that he descended the stairs for the second time, yawning now that the adrenaline rush had subsided. He dragged a hand through his wildly messy hair in an effort to tame it, but all he managed was to throw the spiky ends into further disarray. Hiding another yawn behind his hand, he stumbled into the kitchen and gave his wife a lopsided grin.

"I thought you were supposed to be in Wigtown today," he said in a voice raspy with morning. He brushed a kiss against her cheek as she looked up from the morning edition of the _Daily Prophet_ before splashing some milk in the bottom of his favourite mug.

"I was." Ginny looked him over with a critical eye before smiling in welcome. "You still haven't made friends with morning, have you?"

"Ron and I just came off third shift. I've only been in bed for about..." Harry glanced at the clock. "An hour and a half. Today's my day off before we go back to first shift tomorrow."

Ginny winced. "I shouldn't have made so much noise. You should go back to bed, get some sleep while you can."

"It's okay. I'm up now." Harry filled his mug with tea and sat at the kitchen table next to her. "So, why aren't you in Wigtown? Is everything alright?"

"Took a Bludger in the shoulder during morning practice." Ginny grimaced and rotated her shoulder gingerly, the pain more remembered than real. "Caught me just at the top of the scapula and bounced right off my thick head. Phyllida patched it up, but a Bludger to the head is an automatic three-day leave. I'll be cleared to fly on Thursday, but then we're off for a week so I thought I'd come home before I leave for the U.S."

"Ouch." Having been hit by a fair few Bludgers in his day, Harry could well empathise, especially considering how much harder they hit in the professional leagues. "Did they give you any potions to take during your recuperation?"

Ginny nodded. "One for pain as needed, but I doubt I'll even need to open the phial." It would join the others in their shared medicine chest. "Ron said Mum's on another of her quests for me to make her a grandmother again. He thinks we should—"

"Come clean, I know," said Harry. He took a deep breath and sipped at his tea, making a conscious effort to keep his mind clear and his private thoughts safely in his head.

"I thought we'd put on the usual show for dinner. Maybe tomorrow night if you're not too knackered?" She rose from the table and peered inside the cold cupboard. "Hungry? I'm famished. I didn't have a chance to eat before I Apparated."

Harry rose and pulled Ginny into a comforting hug. She was warm and familiar, not quite motherly but intimate in a way that Hermione couldn't be. They shared a name and a house, and upon rare occasion a bed where they slept together, but never more than that. They had a bargain, one that they both worked to keep, and part of that was never keeping secrets from each other. Harry knew as much about Ginny's life as she knew about his.

"Aren't you supposed to be resting? I'm happy to fix you breakfast. Omelette? Scramble? Bacon and eggs?" Harry poked his head into the cold cupboard and awaited her decision. He was a fair cook: nothing special, but he could put together a decent meal easily enough.

"A garden omelette, if you'll share it with me." Ginny started moving around the kitchen as Harry pulled half a dozen vegetables from the bin. She set the table and, once finished, started grating cheese. They were well accustomed to working together for all they saw each other only once or twice a month during the Quidditch season.

"How's your hunt for Snape going?"

"Eh," replied Harry as he chopped up some mushrooms. "Checked another place off the list a couple of weekends ago. Missed falling off a cliff by about six inches. Fortunately, this beach was deserted and I didn't have to modify any memories." There was nothing quite like suddenly appearing out of thin air and scaring the life out of a Muggle or two to get the heart really pounding. There was something about that high-pitched scream that jangled every nerve he possessed.

Ginny paused as she set a fork down. "I've been giving this some thought." She rolled her eyes as Harry turned from the hob and arched a brow at her. "No, I'm serious. Hear me out, alright?"

"I'm listening," he replied, all ears and scepticism. He flipped the omelette and added cheese and the spicy salsa Ginny had discovered on one of her treks across the Pond that they'd both developed a taste for.

"Putting aside everything you've done to find Snape, how would you search for a missing person?" As Harry put the finishing touches on their omelette, she set some bread in the rack to toast.

Harry's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"What steps would you take to find someone who has gone missing?" she said, arching a brow expectantly. In her own way, she reminded him strongly of McGonagall. It was almost disconcerting. She swiftly buttered the toast and set the slices in the caddy before joining Harry at the table.

They took a moment to further prepare their breakfasts to their liking, Harry sprinkling salt and pepper whilst Ginny topped up their teacups. "Well, I'd start by speaking with the person who reported them missing, then get a list of everybody who has regular contact with him or her. I'd try to get a sense of their habits and delve a bit into their past to see if there might be a reason they went missing. I'd interview their friends and colleagues, find out who saw them last and see where it leads. Why?"

"Have you done any of that?" asked Ginny between bites. "Mmm. This is delicious, by the way. Much better than the slop Brenda throws together."

"That's because she only feeds you things that have no flavour whatsoever." It must be a nutritional rule—if it tastes good, it's not healthy. At least, Harry had once thought so before discovering the existence of chillies, herbs, and spices. "And it's a good thought, but it wouldn't work. I'm the last person Snape spoke with and I haven't a clue where he disappeared to."

"But the cottage once belonged to Professor Dumbledore, yes?"

Harry reached for his tea. "Yes. Go on," he said slowly.

"Mightn’t Aberforth know something about it? I know he and Dumbledore weren't close, not particularly, but you said that the deed hasn't been updated in two hundred years, maybe more. Where did Dumbledore get it? Someone should know something about it if the goblins don't."

~*~

It was spring only by virtue of the date on the calendar. A hard wind blew down from the hills that surrounded Hogsmeade and clumps of snow fought a losing battle against vanishing into the mud puddles that made walking along the trail worn by thousands of school children somewhat treacherous. Harry had barely shaken off the effects of Apparition before he was casting a few warming charms and wishing he'd brought a heavier cloak.

The village was quiet and, as he headed toward the High Street, Harry tried to ignore the sense of being watched. He knew it was his imagination; the last few Death Eaters that had eluded the Ministry's attempts at capture weren't worth worrying about. A quiet village wasn't a threat to his safety. There wasn't a price on his head. Still, he hadn't been back in Hogsmeade since he moved to London with Ron.

The memories were sharper here, the aromas wafting from Honeydukes and The Three Broomsticks forcibly dragging him back to his adolescence. As he walked past Madam Puddifoot's, he found himself wondering about Cho Chang. He couldn't see the sign for Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes without thinking of Fred. He inhaled deeply and exhaled his melancholy and then strode determinedly to the Hog's Head.

Some things never changed. Even after having been declared a hero and being awarded an Order of Merlin (third class), Aberforth Dumbledore still cast a suspicious eye on everyone who stepped inside. He stood behind the bar and busied himself with the vast collection of dusty bottles he guarded as ferociously as a dragon her egg.

Harry leaned sideways against the bar and waited patiently for Aberforth to acknowledge him. The pub was nearly empty. An older wizard in a tattered cloak huddled over his tankard and averted his eyes whenever Harry glanced in his direction. A youngish couple occupied a small table against the wall and returned to their argument as soon as Harry turned away. Having nothing better to do, Harry traced idle patterns in the dust as he watched Aberforth's reflection in the mirror.

Five, ten, fifteen minutes passed. Aberforth polished his bottles whilst Harry sketched the outline of Snape's property in the dust.

"Potter."

"Aberforth." Their eyes met in the mirror.

Aberforth sighed when it became clear Harry wasn't going to leave. "What can I get for you, Potter? Firewhisky? Butterbeer?" His blue eyes turned mocking. "Pumpkin juice?"

"Dragon's Breath." Harry fought to keep the triumph off his face when Aberforth's eyes widened a touch. "Unless that's too complicated for you? Otherwise, a pint will do."

Aberforth started rooting around the bottles kept underneath the bar. "Know I have some aromatic tentacula here somewhere. After a few minutes of moving stock around and blowing the dust off labels, he grunted and slowly pulled himself erect. "One pint, coming up." He opened a tap and glared at Harry. "What brings you to Hogsmeade?"

Harry reached into his pocket and pulled out the description of the property Snape had inherited from Dumbledore. "I'm trying to find this place and I was hoping you could help me." As Aberforth read the brief paragraph, his lips moving as he tried to make sense of it, Harry explained further. "It might be under Fidelius. It might be unplottable. It might be a figment of my imagination. I've been searching for it for three years now and I'm running out of places to look."

Aberforth's gaze was piercing. "What makes you think I'd know anything about it?"

Harry took a swallow from his mug. "It belonged to your brother, but I can't figure out where he acquired it, so I'm thinking it used to be in the family. Do you recall visiting anyone who lived near the shore? Any shore?"

"Ha! I've not left Hogsmeade for nearly seventy years." Aberforth turned away and resumed waving his dirty rag over the next row of bottles. From time to time, though, he gave the mirror a thoughtful glance.

"What about when you were a child? Did your grandparents live near a body of water? An uncle, perhaps?" Harry was nothing if not persistent, and he would sit there all day if it meant Aberforth provided him with even a scrap of information. He looked over his shoulder to see the old wizard still guarding his tankard quickly turn his head.

"If it belonged to my brother, it's someone else's problem now. All I know of the place is that he didn't give it to me." He gave Harry a sharp glance. "Best not to meddle in things that don't concern you."

"Except it does," returned Harry calmly. "The person who inherited it from Albus left it to me in his own will, but all I have to go on is that description and whatever information you choose to part with. Before you start, yes, I've asked at Gringotts, but I'm not exactly their favourite wizard. I'm certain you can work out why."

Aberforth set down his rag and turned swiftly. "The property is yours? I thought Albus left it to..." His heavy brows drew close together and his keen gaze sharpened further. Harry suppressed the urge to sigh. He must have given something away, but he didn't know what. "You have proof of this, of course."

Harry took a deep breath and told himself to keep his temper in check. "I reckon that depends on who you think he left it to." He took a healthy swig of ale and settled in to wait.

Making a show of checking on his other patrons, Aberforth set a bowl of peanuts down in front of the man in the corner with a thump, and then brought another round of drinks to the couple who had given up arguing in favour of listening in on Harry's conversation.

"What do you know of sheep, Potter?" asked Aberforth when he returned to the bar.

Before Harry could answer, a witch draped in bright gauzy robes drifted in and settled herself at a small table in the middle of the room. She drew a handkerchief from a fringed bag and scrubbed the table before setting a candle on it, and then settled in with a book. Aberforth brought her a small glass filled with ruby coloured liquid and Harry had to look twice before he was certain it wasn't Trelawney.

"What do I know of sheep?" asked Harry in confusion once Aberforth had returned to his post.

"That was the question."

Harry sat up and blinked owlishly. "Well," he said slowly. "They eat grass and give wool, and we eat the extras."

"In other words, not a damned thing." Aberforth fixed sharp eyes on him. "My brother was fond of knitting and spun his own yarn. If you knew him at all, Potter, then you'll know he enjoyed complicating simple matters. Riddles within riddles. Never a straight answer when half a dozen parables would do." He rested his elbow on the bar and leaned forward. "Sheep, Potter. That's the ticket."

Sheep? What Harry knew about sheep wouldn't fill three inches of parchment. "What kind of sheep? What about sheep do I need to know?" Harry spent another hour and consumed a second pint before he decided Aberforth wasn't about to tell him anything more. He set two Galleons on the bar and started towards the door when Aberforth's voice rang out.

"Mary had a little lamb. Its fleece was white as snow. My brother's weren't, though."

Harry glanced back over his shoulder, brow furrowed in confusion, but Aberforth merely glared back. Shaking his head, Harry stepped out into the village, blinking as the unexpected sunshine shone in his face.

~*~

A couple of weeks after Harry's visit with Aberforth, he and Ginny came to Burrow on a bright, cheerful Sunday afternoon to visit for a spell and perhaps set Molly's mind at ease about the state of their marriage. Charlie was still at the reserve and Percy was off doing "important business for the Ministry," as he called it, but the rest of the growing family were enjoying an informal picnic out of doors.

"Up for some Quidditch?" shouted Bill from over their heads as he and Ginny stepped through the back door and into the garden.

"Sure they are," said George with a grin, throwing an arm around Harry's shoulder and leading him to the area marked out as a pitch. "Angelina's getting us organised—"

"Which means digging the Quaffle out of the shed," said Ginny dryly. "I'll round up a couple of brooms for us and see if I can't find the bats." She brushed a chaste kiss over Harry's lips and sauntered away to help Angelina, grinning back at him as she left.

"Forge rules?" asked Harry as Ron swooped in for a landing. "Hey, Ron. Where's Hermione? I didn't see her when we came in."

"She and Fleur are discussing babies." Ron pulled a face. "Reckon Mum's put that thought in her head since you and Ginny aren't following her grand scheme." As Ron was speaking, George stepped in between them and draped his arms around their shoulders, grinning broadly. "Mum doesn't understand about Quidditch any more than Hermione does."

"Ginny's got a fair few years left before she'll be ready to start popping 'em out," said George. "And yes, mate, Forge rules. We decided to make you work for it, though. You'll need to catch the Snitch before they put a hundred points up."

The Forge Rules were fairly simple. The Keeper and Chasers made up one side; the Beaters and Seeker made up the other. The Beaters formed the defence; the Chasers were the offense. As Keeper, Ron could knock the Quaffle in with any part of his body except his hands, or try to keep the Beaters from scoring, should they get lucky enough to bat the Quaffle through the hoop.

The Beaters would use the Bludgers to keep the Chasers and Quaffle away from the goal posts. Whilst all this madness was going on below (in the Forge Rules, nearly anything was legal), Harry still had to catch the Snitch. It was a fast, furious and (generally) friendly game, but as the team was all Weasleys of one stripe or another, both sides played to win.

"Hundred points, eh?" Harry looked at Bill and George, both of whom made excellent Beaters—for a pair of amateurs. "I think we can take 'em."

"I don't know, mate," warned Ron. "Ginny's fast." He ducked out from under George's arm and jogged with Harry to the shed to sort through the brooms on hand. At the end of her first season with the Harpies, Ginny had bought a dozen new Nimbus brooms just to have at the Burrow. The teams were supplied with all sorts of gear at ridiculously low prices, and with as often as Quidditch happened at the house it seemed only natural to make certain there were enough brooms available for anyone who wanted to play.

"Tell him something he doesn't know," shouted George with a leer and a wink. Ron and Harry exchanged a look and Harry shook his head. George ran off to help Angelina with the equipment and Harry was startled by a tap on his shoulder.

It was Bill and he gestured with his head towards Ron, giving him a pointed look until Ron kicked skywards. "I'd like a minute to speak with you before you and Ginny leave," he said quietly. "And don't worry. I don't plan to say anything to Mum and Dad. I want to help, if you'll let me." He gazed steadily at Harry, until Harry swallowed hard and nodded.

"Ron?" ventured Harry. "Or Ginny?"

"Hermione, actually. And a lot of little things that I don't think anyone else have noticed." Bill's expression softened and his eyes were warm. "There's a chance Charlie and I have bounced a few thoughts around, purely hypothetical, you understand. Plus, he hears things in Romania that tend not to get mentioned here."

Harry felt his blood run cold and his heart thundered in his chest. He and Ginny knew they were living on top of a powder keg that could ignite at any moment, but Harry never thought that the spark would come from someone so close to home. He’d imagined a salacious article would appear in the _Daily Prophet_ or someone would think to ask about his heretofore unmentioned interest in lighthouses. "What," he managed, "did Hermione say?"

~*~

Once George and Angelina declared themselves victorious at the end of the third match, a half a dozen happy, sweaty Quidditch players tumbled into the Burrow and immediately queued for the two washrooms to clean up for dinner. Harry changed his shirt and caught Ginny's eye when she stepped into her old bedroom. "Bill wants to speak with me about something Hermione said," he said. "I'd like you with me, if that's alright?" He gazed searchingly at her, his brow furrowed with worry.

Ginny peeled off the shirt that clung to her like a second skin and donned a sleeveless blouse that never made it home after the last Christmas. ""Have you any idea what it's about?" she asked in a hush.

Harry shook his head. "He mentioned Charlie hearing things in Romania that aren't discussed here. Ideas and theories they've discussed. Whatever it is, I think we're in for more than the speech about having children."

Ginny turned and gazed out the window for a moment, gnawing on the inside of her cheek. She gave a sharp nod and faced him squarely. "A united front has always served us well in the past, and I see no reason to change the scheme now. Besides, Bill has no proof of anything and I know Ron and Hermione won't breathe a word, regardless of whatever Bill thinks he heard. They're both too afraid of what Mum will say."

"Everyone's afraid of what your mum will say," said Harry drily. "I'm afraid of what Molly will say. But will you come with me?"

She snorted. "Honestly, there are moments when I think Snape was right about you. Idiot. Yes, of course I will. Bill only looks scary. He's really more like Dad." She tilted her head and grew thoughtful. "Though, if he's bouncing ideas off Charlie..." Her expression hardened. "Don't say anything you'll regret later."

More than anything, Harry was amused. "We've been at this awhile, Ginny. Being an Auror has taught me quite a lot about dealing with people, especially the ones who have a different view of the world than I do."

Dinner was its usual splendid affair, complete with gentle teasing and mild barbs being tossed hither and yon like a Bludger batted between skilled Beaters. The food was wonderful, the company even better, and Harry's heart would have been full but for the guilt plaguing it. Every so often Bill's eyes would cut over in his direction and, no matter how much he laughed and bantered back, he still felt like a specimen about to be included in Snape's ingredients stores.

Every time Harry sat down at the Weasley dinner table he felt an undeniable sense of belonging, one he was loath to disturb. Knowing that Bill suspected something, no matter how trivial, upset the delicate equilibrium and Harry wasn't ready to bare his soul to his brother-in-law, no matter how fond of him Harry was. He dredged up some courage and beamed at Bill before turning his attention back to whatever George was telling him. Molly, at the foot of the table, was in her element and couldn't have looked happier. Some days, knowing he would erase that, was unbearable.

Once the meal had ended, Harry and Ginny vanished through the back door, sat at the picnic table, and exchanged long glances as they braced themselves for whatever it was Bill wanted to speak with them about. They didn't speak. They didn't have to. The two of them had envisioned this moment for too long to be surprised when it arrived.

A shadow fell across the table and Harry looked up. "Hello, Bill."

"Harry." Bill stood across the table from them and looked directly at his sister. "Ginny." The three of them stared at each other for a few seconds, and then Bill sat down with a sigh. "I don't suppose I can ask to speak with Harry privately."

Ginny shook her head as Harry arched a brow. "Surely anything you have to say to me you can say in front of my wife. We've no secrets from each other, unless it's about Christmas gifts or something like that. Certainly nothing of consequence." He swung his other leg over the bench and sat facing Bill, his elbows propped on the table in front of him. Ginny remained straddling the bench, appearing more like a spectator than a participant.

"Very well." Bill scrubbed a hand over his chin and blew out a breath. "Merlin, this is awkward." His eyes moved back and forth between them. "Alright. I was coming out of the small bathroom and I heard Hermione arguing with Ron." He frowned for a moment as though trying to recall precisely what was said.

"Nothing unusual about that," remarked Harry. "It's only alarming when they don't argue." Beside him, Ginny coughed out a laugh. "What was Hermione on about this time?"

"Knitting." For a moment, Bill appeared as perplexed as Harry felt. "More precisely, which one of them was going to ask Mum for you about knitting."

Harry exchanged a glance with Ginny. "You wanted to speak with me privately because Hermione and Ron can't decide who should talk to Molly on my behalf about knitting? Well, I can see how that would be alarming," he said, his tone edged with sarcasm.

"No, that's just the start of it," snapped Bill. "You think you're being clever, Harry, but you've not yet realised that some of us are worried about the two of you—"

"We're fine," exploded Ginny. Harry reached under the table and laced his fingers through hers. "We both have careers that don't allow us much time together. We knew that when we married. The only ones who are in a hurry for us to 'settle down and have kids' are you and Fleur and Mum and Dad. Everyone else knows we're not ready yet. Just because you and George have kids doesn't mean we're in a rush to have them."

"Don't think you can hide behind Victoire and little Fred. That's not what this is about." Bill leaned forward and his gaze expanded to include Harry. "Did you know the only time the two of you show affection is when you know someone is watching? Did you know Harry is the only man in the family who has never reacted around Fleur, besides Charlie?" His eyes narrowed and he looked hard a Ginny. "Did it ever cross your mind that people still pay attention to you when you travel abroad with the National team?"

Harry tightened his grip on Ginny's hand, but his expression didn't change a whit. "What are you saying, Bill?" he asked blandly, hoping the cold rush of fear didn't show.

"I'm saying you've been playing us for fools, both of you, and it has to stop."

The ice in Harry's veins melted and he summoned up a sense of anger and indignation at being judged, while his insides twisted uncomfortably. He refused to lie to Bill, but he wasn't about to admit to anything either. "Knitting, putting off kids, not losing my head around Fleur, rumours about the National squad and keeping private moments private." Harry ticked off each point as he named it. "That's it?"

"What are they saying about the National squad?" growled Ginny, her eyes flashing dangerously.

"They're saying you've been keeping company with one of the German Chasers. They say that he's been at all your matches and you've been at all of his. They say that you're spending more time with him off the pitch than you do with your own husband. They say," Bill continued, his voice softening, "there are photographs, though Charlie's not seen any published in any of the newspapers in Romania."

"Who is 'they'?" asked Harry after a long moment, exhibiting about as much curiosity as he would about new restrictions on flying carpets.

Bill sat up, shock registering in his blue eyes. "I tell you that there are rumours that your wife is having an affair and all you can say is 'who is they?' Aren't you even the slightest bit concerned?"

Harry slung his arm around Ginny's shoulder. "And I told you that Ginny and I have no secrets. Besides, if Ginny were to have an affair, wouldn't you say that's my business and not yours?" Beside him, Ginny glared at her brother, continuing to play her part well.

"If I were foolish enough to have an affair in the first place," she bit out, "don't you reckon I'd be smart enough to hide it better?" Her lip curled in disgust. "I wish you and Charlie would get it through your thick skulls that Harry and I are perfectly happy with the way things are. We don't need your help or your advice."

"So it doesn't bother you that your husband is probably gay?" exclaimed Bill. His eyes cut toward Harry. "And it doesn't bother you that Ginny is likely in love with someone else?" He was met with stony silence.

"Let's say all of this is true," said Harry calmly, though he was far from feeling that way. "I still don't see how any of it is your business."

"Harry, this is a family," replied Bill. He laid his hands flat on the table and leaned in. "You and Ginny may be happy, and thank heavens if you are, but what happens if this _is_ true and you split up? You've been an official Weasley for more than three years now and an unofficial Weasley since you were twelve. I would hate to see the family take sides and feel forced to choose between the two of you. I've thought of you as my little brother for so long I wouldn't know how not to."

The Burrow had been Harry's second home since before his second year at Hogwarts and he couldn't imagine not being welcome there. He loved them all, even Percy in his own way, and knew Bill's fears to be groundless. "I would never let that happen," he said firmly. "Besides being my wife, Ginny is one of my best friends. Marriage aside, it's important to me that she's happy. I would never hurt her, not knowingly, and she'd do the same for me."

"Harry's absolutely right," added Ginny, her voice firm. "It's really not your business, to start with, and if we ever do separate, we'll do so amicably. We don't keep secrets. Period." Her eyes narrowed. "And if you find that hard to understand, I suggest you speak to Fleur about it."

Harry rose from the table. "If that's all, I think I'd like to ask your mum about knitting and spare Hermione from having to do it." He smiled warmly at Ginny and offered her his hand. "Coming?"

She came to her feet with the brilliant smile Harry loved. "Absolutely. I'll bet Mum has pudding set out." She slipped an arm around Harry's waist and walked with him into the house, leaving Bill alone with his troubled thoughts.

Harry strode into the house, Ginny at his side. He made a beeline to Molly and sat across from her in the overstuffed chair that seemed to be the family favourite. As always, Molly had her knitting needles out and Harry watched her intently for a few minutes, his lips pursed as though a question was fighting its way out of his mouth.

"It's not like you to take such an interest in this," said Molly. A hopeful air wreathed her face and she flashed Ginny an expectant look. "I know Ginny has no patience for knitting—she could never stay still long enough to manage a full row of stitches, but it's a wonderful way to relax. Here," she patted the sofa cushion, "let me show you."

This wasn't going the way Harry had envisioned it at all. Before he had a moment to blink he found himself sitting next to Molly, a bag of mixed yarn at his feet and a pair of thick knitting needles in his hands. "I just had some questions about yarn," he said weakly. "I didn't—"

"Reach down and choose a colour, dear," replied Molly. "Someday you and Ginny are going to give me grandchildren and it's not too soon to start making things for the baby. Green is a nice, neutral colour. So is yellow. Find one you like."

"But—" Harry sighed at a sharp glance from both Molly and Ginny and he shot Ron a look of quiet desperation. Molly ignored their protestations and assured them that it would happen one way or another, no matter how many times Harry and Ginny had warned Molly not to expect them to reproduce. It was easier just to blow with the prevailing winds and Harry could see no way out of this without offending his mother-in-law.

"Very well." It wasn't worth the heartache and he had time on his hands. It was an easy enough thing to make Molly happy for the moment. Merlin knew that wouldn't last forever. Harry fished through the bag and found a skein of buttery yellow yarn that looked like sunshine and made him want to bury his face in it and rub against it like a cat.

Molly took another pair of needles from the bag and showed Harry how to cast the first row. It took some doing to get his fingers to cooperate and he found himself appreciating his Christmas jumpers all the more. "You'll find that with a bit of practice, those stitches will start to become the same size. But keep going. I want to see a full twenty knots on that needle."

Harry was certain he made as many mistakes as humanly possible. He wound the yarn the wrong way, had the needle slip out of the loop completely, caught the wrong little gap between stitches and Molly had him unravel his work a number of times, but finally he had a row of knots that were roughly the same size. Once he had earned her approval, he laid the needles in his lap and flexed his hands.

To his surprise, a small crowd had formed to watch him become the next claimant to the Weasley knitting throne, and Harry scowled at their grinning faces. "Alright, Ron, George. Give it a go if you think it's that easy." George backed off immediately, but Ron and Bill both found seats near their mother, with Hermione and Fleur perched nearby, and within moments they each had a pair of needles and a ball of yarn to contend with.

Harry removed the stitches and tried again as Bill and Ron wrestled with fingers, thumbs, yarn and needles that refused to cooperate. "Imagine us showing up for roll call with knitting bags," said Harry with a laugh. "Robards would never get over it."

Ron held Harry's gaze for a moment. "I don't reckon I would, either. Still, maybe we can start a line of Auror wear." He grinned as Hermione tried to cough her laughter away.

"I know a lot of the WAGs knit during matches," said Ginny, referring to the wives and girlfriends of the professional Quidditch players. "Maybe Harry can start a trend in the Harpies box with the other gents."

"At least I'm working the right colour then," laughed Harry, and then looked up at a low growl from Bill who was busy trying to work a tangle out of the yarn and not lose his place. "Where do you buy your yarn, Molly?" He tied on another stitch and stopped to count how many he had on the needle.

"No, Bill, not like that. You'll break the yarn and have to start over. What was that Harry, dear?" Molly showed Bill how to unravel and work the snarl out before turning her attention to Harry.

"I was asking about the yarn," explained Harry, finally getting around to the subject he'd wanted to ask about from the beginning. "Where do you get it? And what's it made of? Wool?"

"My yarn? At Mrs Beasley's over on Ladder Alley. There's a little archway just around the corner from Gringotts. It's a bit hard to see if you don't know it's there."

"We know it, Mum," said Ron. "Ladder Alley empties out onto Balthazar's Close. A bit dodgy, it is. The Close, not the street."

"Is it the shop across from the greengrocer's?" asked Harry. "I've seen it, but I've never been in." His brow furrowed for a moment as he tried to recall the window display. "It has a blue polka-dot sign with yellow writing, and fabric? Canisters with beans? I don't recall what else it has in the windows. It's far enough away from Knockturn Alley that we don't pay it much mind." 

"If you're looking for yarn, dear, I suggest starting with one of the blended wools. They don't tangle nearly as much, they're washable and they come in an entire rainbow of colours. The pure wool is warmer, of course, but you'll be starting with simple things, like blankets and scarves. You'll want a nice, heavy yarn and your needles should be about the same size as you have in your hands. Buy the wooden ones, dear. They're not as slippery."

Molly set her own knitting aside and examined the work Bill and Ron had done so far whilst Harry sat with his full row of stitches, uncertain what he was supposed to do next. As he waited, he flashed a smile at Ginny and gestured towards his needles with a questioning look. She shrugged and Harry started to gather up ball and string to hand to her.

"Oh no, Harry," scolded Molly. "You're not done and I've plenty of needles." She crooked her finger at Hermione as Angelina backed into the shadows to hide with George.

Arthur's laugh filled the room. "Your mum's been waiting for this moment her entire life. It's difficult enough to knit eight jumpers a year, but she's coming up to needing almost twice that now and it won't be long before she'll be so busy knitting, she won't have time for anything else."

To Harry's mind, the busier Molly was making blankets and jumpers, the less time she'd have for nagging them about...about everything, really. Harry knew Molly meant well. If his mother had lived, she'd probably.... His thoughts ran into a stone wall. If his parents had survived, if Voldemort had never happened, would he have married Ginny for the sake of appearances?

Harry let out a sigh. As with all rhetorical questions, no answer satisfied. Any conclusion demanded too many suppositions and, as he had learnt so well, some things were best left undisturbed. Whilst Harry was lost to his musings, Ginny and Hermione soon found their hands filled with yarn and their fingers as tangled as Harry's had been.

"Let's see what you've managed," said Molly, giving him a soft smile. She inspected his work, and then showed him how to start the second row. "Just as you've been going. You're doing splendidly."

Harry worked a couple of stitches and then looked up. "You do realise I'm likely to forget all of this by tomorrow, right?"

"If you do, just bring your knitting over and we'll start again." Molly's smile faded a bit. "I do hope you understand that the Burrow is your home." She straightened a bit. "That all of you know that. You're family. Each and every one of you and the door is always open, whether you come alone or with your husbands."

Guilt clutched at Harry's heart and it was a few minutes before he could tear his gaze away from his work. When he finally looked up, it was to find Bill—not Ron, not Ginny—Bill, gazing steadily at him, the concern he'd shown earlier back in full force, and Harry found himself wondering if perhaps it was time to bring Bill in on their secret after all.

Regardless of how vehemently his conscience argued, it was a decision that must wait until after Harry had discussed the matter with Ginny. As he said, they kept no secrets. It was the only way their deception could work.

~*~

As it turned out, 'where does wool come from' was a terrible question to ask. 'Where doesn't wool come from?' would have made a better beginning to his enquiry and resolved a number of his less intelligent questions early on. Great Britain, it seemed, had a lot of sheep. And goats. Not quite as many llamas, though, and no camels to speak of, fortunately.

To his surprise, however, he learnt that there was quite a bit of trade between Wizarding and Muggle Great Britain, especially for the more commonly used items. The Wizarding world didn't have many lumber mills or textile factories. They didn't forge their own metal or grow many crops, and Harry was struck by the fact that while Muggles weren't a part of their world, they were definitely of it.

Hermione gave him a list of mills (via Anthony Goldstein, of course) for Harry to start investigating and Harry groaned audibly at the length of it. "And those are just the commercial mills that supply the Wizarding world with what we require. That doesn't take into account the cooperative concerns who buy wool on the exchanges and do their own spinning."

"I am never going to find him, Hermione," said Harry bleakly as he stared into his butterbeer. "Molly thinks we're about to start breeding, Ginny says I'm not working at it hard enough, Bill knows what's going on, though I've not said much past ‘mind your own business’. My life is a mess."

"Bill knows?" asked Ron as he walked into the room with several platters of food floating behind him. "Why've you not said anything?" Hermione poured herself a glass of wine and made certain Harry's butterbeer was full before sitting down at the table with the two of them.

"He doesn't _know_ ; he suspects, which is nearly as bad," replied Harry as he filled his plate with rice. There were three sorts of curry on the table and rather than decide, he had a bit of each. "But from what he was saying, it sounds like the foreign press has the right of it where Ginny's concerned. He said Charlie's heard rumblings at the Preserve. I swear the only reason they've not said anything in the _Prophet_ is because Thierry Schellenberg is still the latest Undesirable #1."

"When did you talk to Bill?" asked Hermione a bit distractedly, and Harry knew she was thinking about reorganising his search again.

"Just before our knitting lesson started. Ginny was there and that seemed to put Bill off a bit."

"I reckon it would be harder for Bill to tell you that your wife might be stepping out on you when she's sitting right beside you," said Ron before taking a rather subdued bite of food. Harry welcomed the improved table manners. In that respect alone, Hermione was worth her weight in dragon's blood.

Harry ate dispiritedly, though he loved the few nights a month the three of them were able to have dinner together. "He's worried about the family, about what could happen if Ginny and I split up. He's thinking that everyone will feel like they need to choose sides."

"Of course he's worried, Harry. He's never been through anything like that. I'm certain he's trying to put himself in your place and wondering how he'd react. He'd be hurt and angry."

"And probably a bit humiliated," added Ron. "Not that he is, but I reckon he'd imagine himself to be, especially with Fleur being part Veela and all."

"Yes," added Hermione briskly. "It's not as if you've embarrassed yourself in front of her." Still, the expression on her face was one of amusement.

"As have both Percy and George," said Harry sharply. "And probably Fred, most likely. It's one of the things Bill mentioned." Harry's felt the colour rising the moment the words fell from his mouth. The fact that he hadn't drooled over Fleur—ever—was yet another piece of the puzzle Bill felt obligated to complete. "Erm, that I haven't, that is."

Hermione offered an understanding smile. "There's no reason that you should have done. Now, perhaps if Fleur had a brother..."

Harry was shaking his head before she completed her sentence. "Not my type. If I wanted someone all blond and beautiful I reckon I'd have fallen for someone like Malfoy." Ron couldn't help but shudder and Harry arched a brow. "Someone _like_ Malfoy, you prat. I can't even picture myself with someone like that."

"But you can picture yourself with someone like Snape?" Ron pulled a face and Harry rolled his eyes. "Dark eyes, greasy hair, ugly as sin and about as ill-tempered as a Blast-Ended Skrewt." He shook his head. "Even after all this time I don't understand what you see in him. He's mean, he's scrawny, he's vindictive and he hates everyone who's not as smart as him, which I figure is nearly everybody."

"He's also talented, elegant, fiercely intelligent, incredibly loyal, and about the bravest person I've ever known. He's clever, resourceful, passionate, and I can't think of anyone who has held the trust of the two most powerful wizards of the last century the way he has." In the privacy of his own mind, Harry was willing to admit to the slightest possibility that there might be the tiniest element of hero worship to his assessment of Snape's character, but on the whole, he considered his opinion to be relatively unbiased.

"And he saw something in me," continued Harry. "He must have done, to write the things he did, to send the message for me to find him. I just wish he'd left me more to work with." Despair filled his eyes and he slumped in his chair. "I'm no closer to finding him now than I was when I started. The Horcruxes were easier to find than Snape has been."

"Harry..." Hermione's voice was filled with sympathy and she reached over to lay a gentle hand on his arm. "We had more to go on then and it still took us months."

"It's been years, Hermione. Years. I spent my honeymoon exploring the first two places on our list and I've been out at least three times a month since then. I'm just...I don't think I'm going to ever going to figure out where he is," Harry finished bleakly.

Ron and Hermione exchanged a look. It was unlike Harry to admit defeat, no matter how hard he found the road to be. "Perhaps we're going about this all wrong, mate. Forget everything you've discovered and let's lay it all out like we do at work. Talk it through. See what you've missed."

"Yeah, Ginny told me the same thing," said Harry glumly as he rested his chin on his folded hands. "And I've not set foot on a beach since then. I've been too busy chasing down this knitting thing."

Hermione sent the dishes back to the kitchen while Ron Summoned a sheet of parchment and enlarged it. He stuck it to the wall with a Sticking Charm and fished a quill out of the sideboard. "Alright. What did you find in Snape's vault? Tell me everything you can recall."

It would do little harm to humour his friend, so Harry sat up and closed his eyes for a moment and thought. "There were books mostly, antiques like at Grimmauld Place. Most of them were about Potions, but some of them were just books. You know, stories. Like old fairy tales and legends. Almost the sort of thing you'd read to kids.

"He had a chest of old jewellery with crests, some old portraits and a bunch of scrolls that were really well preserved. Nothing about houses or cottages or anything like that, though. There were old instruments that I've no idea how to use, but I think I saw some of them in Dumbledore's office when I went up for Horcrux lessons. They might have come from him.

"Then there were Galleons and such, more than I would have thought he'd have, but nothing like in Sirius' vaults. It was about as much as my parents left for me. There was a Pensieve, smaller than Dumbledore's, but I didn't find any memories anywhere. There wasn't any potion in it, either."

"Did you check for any enchantments like he used in the dungeons?" asked Hermione. "He was rather ingenious at hiding things," she reminded him.

"I asked the goblin who took me down to it. He said that the vaults were spelled against all the regular enchantments," said Harry. "I tried a few of the revealing spells that I used before, but I didn't notice anything." His brow furrowed and he appeared troubled. "I suppose I could ask Bill to take a look."

"Did you request an inventory from Gringotts?" asked Ron. "We've done that when we've been investigating those black marketeers. They'd have records of everything ever placed in that vault, when it was left, and by whom. It's yours now, so there's no reason why they wouldn't provide you with it."

"Where did you find the deed?" asked Hermione.

"I didn't. The goblins gave it to me when I went to see the vault. They said that Dumbledore had bequeathed it to Snape, but they said Snape didn't want it. The Ministry never claimed it, so when Snape's name appeared on the list of those presumed dead, they gave it to me. The thing is, Snape wrote in his diary that he had been to the property, that he'd placed a house-elf there, and spent the year preparing to escape there if everything went pear-shaped, so I don't know why they thought he didn't want it. He'd already started to move in."

"Was there something Snape was supposed to have done to claim the property?" asked Ron.

"He would have had to sign some paperwork with the bank," said Hermione, "but since everyone thought he'd murdered Dumbledore, the goblins might not have allowed him to have it. Profiting from a murder you've committed is generally frowned upon," she explained. "And it was several months before the Ministry fell and even then, it would have been difficult for Snape to appear in person to formalise the transfer. If he had, they would have updated the deed and you would have known right where to look."

"Do you know if there's a way to see Dumbledore's will?" asked Harry. "Would it be in the Department of Records?"

"It can't hurt to look," said Ron. "What are you hoping to find out?"

"Who has Dumbledore's personal things," replied Harry. "His clothes and papers. His personal effects. Someone must have them."

"Perhaps you should check with Minerva. She was Deputy Headmistress and I would expect she would know what became of them," suggested Hermione. "And I'm quite certain she would enjoy a visit from you."

Harry was trying to avoid making a visit to Hogwarts, especially since he knew Dumbledore had been sworn to secrecy and even now, when Snape wanted to be found, the portrait would honour that request. Still, he was running out of patience and he'd reached a dead end. Perhaps it was time to return. "McGonagall might have some ideas," he conceded. "She knew Dumbledore as well as any of us, I suppose."

"Is there anything in Skeeter's book that might help us narrow things down?" asked Ron.

Hermione pressed her lips into a thin line and rose quickly from the table. "Rita Skeeter wouldn't know the truth if she was trapped in a bottle in Veritaserum." She cleared away the few remaining dishes and vanished into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

"She found out more about Dumbledore than we did," argued Harry. "We didn't know anything about Ariana, or him and Grindelwald, or any of it until her book came out. But I don't remember her mentioning anything about an island."

"I don't reckon she said anything about knitting either," said Ron. "Maybe it wouldn't hurt to read it again."

Harry shuddered. He wasn't particularly keen on reporters in general—too many of the _Daily Prophet_ staff had been quick to write him off as a nutter until he was proven right about Voldemort—and Skeeter simply made his skin crawl. Sensationalism won out over truth every single time. "If I don't make any headway with the knitting, then I'll read it. Otherwise, I'll keep to the plan."

Ron looked at him askance. Their scheme to find Snape was foundering if Harry was about ready to chuck it in. "We'll start with a full accounting of Snape's vault. Then we'll read through Skeeter's biography." He scrawled those two items on the right side of the parchment. "What do we know about the property?"

"Beginning at a point on the shore line south forty seven meters..." Harry quoted the deed verbatim. "Then along said shore line past the cave to the point of the beginning. We know it's along the shore. We know a lighthouse is visible. We know there's a cave—or there was. Actually, the only thing we _do_ know is that it's at the shore. Everything else could be gone, including the lighthouse."

"So let's ignore all that," said Ron. "Forget about it completely. Tell me about your conversation with Aberforth, and try not to leave any of it out." He looked up as Hermione set a cup of tea in front of him. She delivered one to Harry as well before taking her seat again.

Harry recounted everything, from the people in the pub to how long he waited at the bar before Aberforth deigned to notice him. He went through their conversation almost word for word. "He really didn't tell me very much at all, except that I needed to learn about sheep. He said that Albus liked to knit and spun his own yarn." He took a sip of his tea, hot and milky, just the way he liked it.

"I remember that Dumbledore told Slughorn that he enjoyed knitting patterns," he added slowly. "So, if he was fond of knitting and spun his own wool, he must have had his own sheep." He met Ron's eyes and shook his head. "And I've not said anything you've not heard a hundred times already. It's just like being back in that fucking tent—except this time the food's better."

"Are you certain that's all he said, Harry?" asked Hermione. "There was nothing else?"

"He quoted a nursery rhyme at me when I was halfway out the door," said Harry, disgruntled. "Mary had a little lamb. Its fleece was white as sn—" He sat up straight and frowned at them.

"As snow," prompted Ron. "Even I know that one."

"But his brother's weren't," said Harry, his face blank as a thousand thoughts whirled behind his eyes. "I've mentioned that, right? That we're not searching for white sheep?" Harry exchanged long looks with both of them.

Ron wrote a new line on the parchment. Coloured sheep. "Okay, what does that tell us?"

Harry shook his head. "I've no idea. I know how to cast on a row of stitches and I know your mum buys her yarn at Mrs Beasley's. I know that Mrs Beasley's buys their yarn from some Muggle company because the Wizarding world can't produce enough on its own. I know that the two Wizarding mills aren't anywhere near water and that they make cloth, not wool. I know Albus spun his own yarn."

"But where did he get his wool?" asked Hermione. "Aberforth said you needed to know about sheep, but we assumed that meant Professor Dumbledore had his own flock."

"When would he have had time to raise sheep?" asked Ron with a roll of his eyes. "Harry, didn't Mrs Cherazaie have a bunch of knitting laying about when we were there last?"

"Yeah, but what of it? Loads of people knit."

"I know they do, but hers wasn't like Mum's. She was working some really complicated looking stuff. Mum just does jumpers and scarves and such. Two colours, mostly. Mrs Cherazaie had loads of colours going. Maybe we ought to speak with her about it."

~*~

Before visiting Mrs Cherazaie, Ron and Harry made a stop at Magical Menagerie and found a fluffy white kneazle that looked like it had taken a merry romp through a fireplace filled with ashes. Three feet were grey, there was a smudge across her nose, her left hip and first third of her tail were grey, and it looked like a sprinkling of ash fell from the chimney across her back.

"You know we'll be called out every week to help her find this one, right?" asked Ron as Harry placed the cat into a carrier and gave her a toy to play with. A bag of food and a comfy bed completed Harry's purchases and he handed the parcel to Ron to carry while he managed the rest.

"I'd rather be called out for a real cat than an imaginary one, and I'll sleep better knowing she's managing by herself." They exited the shop and walked to the Apparition point, taking their place in the queue until it was their turn. Out of habit they kept an eye on the people as they went about their business, nodding a greeting to those who said hello, and pointedly ignoring anyone who still treated Harry as a conquering hero instead of an Auror on patrol.

They Disapparated almost silently and appeared at the edge of Sherwood a minute later, accompanied by the yowling of a very frightened kitten who was none too impressed with that particular mode of magical transportation. "Shh, Indira. It's alright. You're still in one piece," cooed Harry as he peered through the mesh. Green eyes met green eyes and the kitten mewled piteously.

To Ron's surprise and Harry's immense relief, they were met at the door by a young woman who didn't look more than a year or two out of Hogwarts. "I'm Yasmina," she said once Harry and Ron explained why they were there. "Fate is my great-grandmother. I'm taking care of her in exchange for learning about weaving and spinning."

She led them into the front room, now spotless, and invited them to sit. Harry looked around, amazed at the changes since they visited last. The crisp white curtains fluttered slightly at gleaming windows. The furniture shone and the rich carpets gave the room a warm, cosy feeling. The clutter was gone, as was the dust and dirt.

Harry took that moment to examine their host. She was nearly as tall as Ginny, though lacking Ginny's willowy strength. Her skin was the colour of tea with a drop or two of rich cream and her bound hair brushed the top of her hips. Her turquoise dress and loose trousers—Harry knew there was a word for her outfit but he didn't know it—made her dark eyes sparkle. He thought her quite pretty; Ron was certainly behaving as though she was.

"Allow me to bring you some tea and then I'll bring my Nana out. She's setting some charms on the loom so she can teach me out to make fabrics that hold protective enchantments." She flashed a smile as she disappeared into the kitchen.

While Yasmina was fixing tea, Harry set the carrier on the low table in front of the couch and let Indira out, placing the kitten on his lap. If Mrs Cherazaie didn't want her, or if Yasmina thought it a bad idea, he would keep her for himself. She was a cute little thing, curious and affectionate, and with a purr that showed the great potential to be as loud as a lion's.

She wobbled off of Harry's lap onto the couch, picking her way carefully to the end, where she gave some thought to trying to climb up onto the arm of it but, after due consideration, decided against it. Turning back, she wobbled back towards Harry before coming right up to the edge of the cushion and measuring the distance she'd have to leap to land on the coffee table.

Harry snatched her up before she could jump and she mewed again before wandering off Harry's lap in Ron's direction. "Maybe I should get one for Hermione. She's never said so, but she misses Crookshanks."

"She's never said so because she knows you don't," remarked Harry. "I can't say the two of you ever really hit it off, even though he didn't eat Scabbers when he had the chance."

"Might have saved us a bit of trouble if he had," said Ron.

"Ohhh, what an adorable kitten!" Yasmina set the tea service down on the table and scooped the little cat up into her arms and rubbed noses with it.

"Look, Nana." Yasmina held the kitten up as Harry turned to look over his shoulder. Fatemeh stepped through a doorway and into the living room, her eyes lighting up when she saw the tiny kneazle in her great-granddaughter's hands. "Ron Weasley and Harry Potter came to see you and brought it with them."

It was like a new person had stepped into Mrs Cherazaie's shoes and into her life. Her dark eyes sparkled and she moved surely, albeit slowly, through the room to stand beside Yasmina and run a gnarled finger over the soft fur. Her eyes met Ron's and she gave a wistful smile. "How like my Edwin you look." She expanded her gaze to take in Harry as well. "You wonderful, wonderful boys. You saved my life," she said and bowed respectfully to them.

Harry felt his cheeks grow warm. "We were just doing our job, Mrs Cherazaie. But I'm happy to see you're feeling better. The kitten is for you," he added awkwardly. "We—"

"You," interrupted Ron. "You thought."

"I thought that, well, you seemed to like cats and well, we weren't going to find Feather, were we, so...I mean, Hermione still misses Crookshanks, and I couldn't bear to think of you all by yourself, so I found Indira. I probably should have let you pick her out, but she just seemed to be perfect. She's really friendly and if you—"

Mrs Cherazaie laughed brightly. "I can't think of anything I'd like enjoy more than a kneazle, Mr Potter, and I believe Yasmina would never forgive me if I refused such a lovely gift." She sat on the couch near the chair where Ron was sitting whilst Yasmina began to serve tea. "I fear I must apologise to you, Mr Weasley. Edwin was such a dear friend, but he belongs to my past."

The easy smile Ron gave her was warm and friendly. "It's the hair, I reckon. We gingers all look alike. But I'm chuffed to see St Mungo's got you sorted, just as I said they would. No trouble with your shoulder, then?" He leaned forward and took a pastry loaded with nuts and dates off a small plate and bit into it greedily.

Yasmina swirled a touch of honey into a cup and handed it to her grandmother. "It was more than her shoulder. Nana had Doxy dust poisoning. They put her on a potions regimen and now that it's out of her system, she's been her old self ever since." She gazed directly at Ron. "If you'd not come by. If you'd not broken into the house... If you'd not found her when you did, the Healers say she would have died. We thank you from the bottom of our hearts and if there is ever anything we can do for you, all you need do is ask. You and Mr Potter both. We consider it a life debt."

Harry hated life debts, loathed them, and the words sent chills down his spine. He never wanted anyone to feel obligated to him. "We're Aurors, Mrs Cherazaie. Helping people is what we do," he said quietly.

"Not the way you and Mr Weasley have done," said Mrs Cherazaie gently. "The other Aurors, they cast their detection spells and told me my Feather was lost. Or if they found me in the woods, they’d lead me back to the door and not wait to see if I got inside. My thoughts might have been a hundred years in the past, but I knew what was happening and I remember it. I remember it all.

"You stayed until help came. You checked on me. You washed my dishes and dusted my floors." Tears began to spill down her withered cheeks. "I was helpless and couldn't remember how to do the simplest things, even though the knowledge was there. No, Mr Potter. You did more than your job and I won't forget that." Indira chose that moment to steal into the elderly woman's lap. "So much more than your job," she whispered.

Harry didn't know what to say to that, couldn't formulate a response that wouldn't sound churlish. "I know what it means to be lonely, Mrs Cherazaie, and you seemed terribly alone." He looked around a bit and his eyes fell on one of Mrs Cherazaie's innumerable bags of knitting.

"But if you'd really like to help me," he began, and nearly laughed when Mrs Cherazaie's and Yasmina's eyes followed his gaze and widened in surprise. "Would you like us to knit you a blanket or a nice, thick jumper? Gloves? Scarf? Just name it."

Ron arched a brow and Harry took a deep breath. "Can you tell me where you get your yarn?"

"My yarn?" Mrs Cherazaie appeared bewildered by the question while Yasmina blinked owlishly.

"She doesn't buy it. She spins it. And weaves her own cloth," explained Yasmina. "Did I not say so? She is teaching me her art."

"Then where does your wool come from?" asked Harry. The tea sloshed in his cup as he raised it to his lips and he was surprised by the tiny tremors in his hand. This was the best lead he'd had in months and his instincts were clamouring at him to pay attention.

Mrs Cherazaie gave a bird-like tilt of her head and she studied Harry with keen interest. Her eyes darted over to Ron for a moment and she lifted fingers to her lips as though assembling the pieces to a puzzle. "It is a rare witch or wizard who appreciates the origin of the things we take for granted. Your cloak. Your gloves. Your boots. Your trousers. The charmed cloth that forms your tunic. Every piece chosen for a reason. To every piece, a purpose.

"Cotton, flax, hair, silk—and potion. We start there, sorting, carding, cleaning, curing. Spinning the fibres into thread, weaving the threads into cloth. Choosing the colours, setting the dye, preparing the enchantments. Weaving and spinning is a dying art, Mr Potter. Most shops buy their cloth from Muggles, unless the garment is to be used for magical purposes. But the silk is just silk, the cotton merely cotton, until I've worked my magic upon it.

"But you asked of yarn." Mrs Cherazaie freshened their tea before Summoning one of her knitting bags from the other room. She held out an intricate piece knitted in several different colours and Harry reached out to run a finger over the cabled design. Not in a hundred years could he imagine being able to make something like that.

"For this jumper, I am using a blend of cashmere and merino. It will be warm without being bulky. It will breathe easily and it will hold enchantments to keep its shape and resist wear. The cashmere I purchased from a farm in France. The merino came all the way from Australia." She reached into the bag and pulled out another pair of needles, from which hung another length of intricate knitting.

Harry leaned forward to take a closer look. Unlike the first jumper, this one seemed like something he'd throw on after work and wear until it fell apart. It was thick and bulky and woven in variegated shades of brown, everything from pale oatmeal to darkest cocoa. It was warmth and security, a crackling fire and a dram of whiskey. It was hearth and home, and Harry was surprised at the bone-deep feeling of contentment that came from it.

"You feel the magic, don't you?" asked Yasmina in a hushed voice. "It doesn't happen often, but this wool came to us from a special place."

Puzzled at Harry's reaction, Ron reached out and rubbed the knitting through his fingers. "I don't feel anything. What sort of charms did you put on it?"

"This doesn't have any spells on it, Mr Weasley," said Mrs Cherazaie, never taking her eyes off Harry's face. "This came from one of the cooperatives, but I don't recall which one. There are three here in Britain: one in the inner Hebrides, one up in the Shetlands somewhere, and the other one is in Ireland. The sheep are raised on unplottable farms and there's magic in the earth itself."

"How do you make the wool all different colours like that?" asked Harry as his fingers kneaded the fabric. He brought it up and buried his face in it for a moment and closed his eyes as a sense of well-being swept over him. "And you can't feel this?" he asked when he finally pulled it away. "It's...potent." He handed it back with obvious reluctance. "Almost addictive."

"Then it will be yours," said Mrs Cherazaie. "Yasmina, please get Mr Potter's measurements so it will fit him properly. It is in exchange for the lovely kitten, Mr Potter, so it will do you no good to argue."

Harry's jaw snapped shut and he glanced at Ron, hoping his friend would make the usual 'against departmental regulations' argument, but Ron said nothing. A tape measure floated through the air and wrapped itself around his chest, so Harry came reluctantly to his feet while Yasmina recorded the numbers it spat out.

"Finish your tea whilst I check my records, Mr Potter—"

"Please, call me Harry. He's Ron." Harry gestured and Ron smiled. "We'd prefer it, actually. Ron's mum Molly knits jumpers for everyone and gives them to us at Christmas. I have every one she's ever made me, even the ones from when I was first at Hogwarts. They don't fit now, of course, but I can't bring myself to part with them."

"If you ever decide you'd like to learn to knit," said Yasmina, "we can teach you how to make them into a blanket. It's not terribly difficult. It just takes a bit of practise and some patience." 

"My mum is teaching us how to knit," said Ron as Mrs Cherazaie vanished into the other room. "I grew up with her knitting and never knew 'til I tried how much work it is. She got my brother and Harry to give it a go as well." His eyes cut towards Harry for a moment. "He's bloody good at it, Harry is."

"I'm just willing to fail in front of everybody is all," said Harry with a grin. "I've had loads of practise at making a fool of myself in public. But I have this bloody long thing now, which Molly is going to make me rip apart so I can learn a new stitch." He paused. "It's actually a bit relaxing, knitting is."

"Once you've trained your fingers up properly, you'll be able to let your mind wander where it will go," said Mrs Cherazaie as she walked back into the room with an old ledger book in her hand. "I've found it's much easier to get my thoughts in order when my hands are busy, even when I didn't understand what my thoughts were on about."

She gave Harry an understanding smile as she sat beside him on the couch. "In this book are the records of all the materials I've bought since, oh my, it must have been thirty years now. There are other books, of course, but they'll not help you in your search."

Harry shifted uncomfortably. "My...search?"

"Of course your search," she chided gently. "You ask an expert about knitting, though you know next to nothing about it; you wish to know where I buy my wool, though plain yarn from any market would serve you well. You are on a Quest, Harry Potter. The reason is your own affair. It is for me to guide you on your way."

Yasmina shrugged lightly and nuzzled the kitten as Harry and Ron exchanged a look. "Nana is forever saying things like that. Mum says she could have been a Seer, but she likes working with her hands."

"Bah, who listens to Seers? They're almost never right and when they are, it is bad news for everybody," declared Mrs Cherazaie. "Weaving is where my magic led me and weaving is what I know." She opened her ledger and her gnarled finger ran down the page. "Ah yes, here we are. The wool you are holding in your hands came from the Cooperative on Skye. The last two bales of grey wool are from the Shetlands."

"The grey wool?" asked Ron as he stroked the kitten with his finger. He wasn't terribly fond of kneazles and Crookshanks had never taken a liking to him, but he missed the misbegotten thing almost as much as Hermione did.

Yasmina fumbled through the knitting bag and found a skein of wool that hadn't been rolled into a ball. She handed it to Harry, her eyes alight with expectation. "The magic is in the material. See what this is saying to you."

Deciding that a skein of wool couldn't be dangerous, Harry took it in his hand and scrunched it. Instantly, his eyes snapped open and he gasped. The wool fell harmlessly to his feet as he struggled to draw a full breath as wave after wave of arousal flooded his veins. His cock hardened instantly and it was all he could do to keep from shoving his hand down his trousers and relieving the ache.

"From the Shetlands you say?" he asked in a voice rough with desire. He clasped his hands to keep them from shaking as he tried to quell the fire raging through him. Conscious of eyes on him, he inhaled deeply and released the air in his lungs slowly. "Erm, not what I was expecting."

Curious, Ron picked up the wool and buried his hands in it. When nothing happened, he lifted it to his nose and sniffed at it. "Smells like wool. Feels like it as well. And you say this is filled with magic?"

"You don't feel anything?" asked Harry raggedly. His heart was still pounding and, while he no longer felt as though he was on the verge of orgasm, he still felt the heat pooling low in his belly. A hundred bad jokes about Scots and sheep flitted through his mind, but he forced himself not to grin like an idiot and then have to explain himself. "Nothing at all?"

"I already said so, didn't I?" Bemused, Ron picked up the brown knitting and held it with one hand while he held the grey wool in the other. He screwed his eyes shut and sat there for a moment. "Feels a bit like a Saturday morning lie-in." He looked at Harry. "You've always been a bit more sensitive to magic than I am. Reckon it's just one of those things."

"I suppose," replied Harry, wishing he had the courage to take that grey wool in his hands again, feel the sweet tension rise through him and send delightful shivers down his spine. "But at least I know where to search next."

~*~

Harry got his maps out and spread them across his dining room table. There were roughly thirty lighthouses in the Shetlands protecting the ships that wove their way through the hundred or so islands that made up the archipelago. Some of them he crossed off straight away; he'd visited those areas already and hadn't found anything remotely resembling what he was searching for. A few more were lined out due to their proximity to Muggle villages.

The Shetlands were further north than Harry travelled regularly, and when he Apparated onto one of the tiny islands that Hermione had assured him was uninhabited, he was expecting something slightly larger than a rock roughly the size of Hagrid's hut. The only plus that came immediately to mind was that the waters were calm enough that he wasn't in danger of being swept away by a rogue wave.

Centring himself on the tiny island, Harry pulled his map out of his cloak and sat cross-legged whilst he worked out precisely where he was going to search first. He marked off the main island and the next few with Muggle settlements. It seemed unlikely that Dumbledore would hang onto a cottage where the use of magic was likely to be spotted. But six of the islands didn't appear on any Muggle maps, and of those, three were within sight of a lighthouse.

"Snape, what are you doing up here?" he muttered under his breath before climbing to his feet to look out at the dark seas surrounding him. The sky was grey, with occasional patches of blue that served as a reminder that something existed beyond the clouds and gusts of wind tousling his hair, bringing with it sprays of water that fogged his spectacles.

He cast a quick Impervious and focussed his attention on the smallest of the unplottable islands on his map. "And if you are here, it's time to stop hiding." Gathering his maps and his willpower, Harry took a deep breath, closed his eyes and turned sharply, leaving behind nothing more than the sharp _crack!_ of Apparition.

The first island was every bit as deserted as the tiny atoll he'd just left, though this one was nearly all stone with only a few patches of grass clinging stubbornly to life. It took Harry slightly over a minute to walk from one end to the other, his wand extended as he uttered every detection spell he knew. There had to be a reason the island was unplottable, but after careful investigation, he decided that the purpose no longer existed.

The second island was much like the first, but the third one made the hairs on the back of his neck rise and he was certain a Sneakoscope would have spun itself completely apart. He Apparated back to the first island as quickly as humanly possible whilst his scattered brain tried to work out what had horrified him so much.

He drew a circle around the location on his map and wrote the word DARK! in huge letters, underlining it three times, vowing to send a few Unspeakables to the location as quickly as time allowed. 'Might Snape be there?' he thought, and found himself trying to reconcile everything he'd come to learn about the man through his memories and diaries against his own experiences.

Harry turned in the direction of the Dark island. He squinted as though trying to gaze across twenty miles of open sea and pick out the horde of former Death Eaters who had nothing better to do than hide out in the middle of the North Sea a metaphoric stone's throw from Azkaban. He rolled his eyes at his over-active imagination, reminded himself to tell Kingsley about it, and fixed his sights on the next island.

Either Harry wasn't concentrating as hard as he should have done or he'd misjudged badly the location of the fourth island. He materialised about a foot above the choppy waves and plummeted straight down into the ocean. He flailed wildly for a moment and gasped the second his head broke the surface, coughing out the mouthful of salty water he'd nearly inhaled as he thanked Hermione again for the charm that ensured he'd never lose his glasses.

The island was half a Quidditch pitch away, and Harry dog-paddled determinedly in its direction. Once his feet brushed along the rocky shore, he dragged himself to his feet, water pouring off his cloak and running in icy rivulets down his face and back. With chattering teeth, he cast Warming and Drying charms over himself and gazed around wildly for some driftwood to ignite.

"You'd better be grateful I love you, you fucking bastard," he shouted at the top of his lungs, startling into flight a flock of birds that Harry thought were gulls but weren't. He watched warily as they wheeled through the air and circled over his head before deciding he wasn't enough of a threat to disrupt their nesting.

Somewhere in the distance a dog began to bark, a high-pitched excited cry rather than a throaty snarl of warning, and Harry froze for a moment and eyed the top of the cliff nervously. He plastered himself against the rocky face and backed under a narrow overhang whilst he decided what to do.

A thin high-pitched whistle warbled from a distance away and the barking stopped. Harry held his breath and listened with all his might, but other than the shrill cry from the birds, all he heard was the steady lapping of the waves against the rocky shore. _Inhabited_ , he thought as he considered his options.

After a few minutes, Harry stepped away from the cliff and paid note to his surroundings. The cliff, if it could be called that, was no more than twenty feet from top to shore, and Harry could see long tufts of grass at the summit. The face was stone, craggy in places but worn smooth in enough spots that Harry could appreciate the storms that must move through with some regularity.

He followed the shoreline along the western side of the island, scrambling over rocks and wading through shallow pools until he found a narrow opening formed between two stone ridges and stepped inside. " _Lumos_ ," he whispered once he had his wand out and clambered over the slabs of rock until he reached the hollow at the very back. Dark streaks discoloured the cave's ceiling and he tilted his head back and followed the water stains with his eyes, moving around under the crevice until he spotted a sliver of grey sky.

"Okay, we've got a cave with a crack in the ceiling," he said out loud, his voice echoing off the walls. He froze for a moment, but when the dog didn't start barking again, he relaxed. "No roots, though," he added in a whisper. "So, are there trees?"

Mindful of the dog, he crept quietly out of the cave and continued down the shore, keeping as close to the cliff as possible. As he reached the southernmost tip, he found the cliff disappearing as the hill sank down into a narrow field that was swallowed by the only beach Harry had encountered thus far.

He crouched down, keeping his head below the top of the cliff, and closed his eyes. His heart started hammering as the adrenaline began to flow. He was here on his own, no back-up, no friend to call on for help if something went terribly wrong. If the Auror Corps discovered he had trespassed onto unplottable property, he could be suspended from duty—or worse. He was sworn to uphold the law, not break it with impunity.

But he had to know what was on the island. That was more important than his career, than his reputation. He cast a Disillusionment Charm over himself and crawled on hands and knees over the ledge and onto the field, wiggling forward until he found a spot that provided him with a relatively decent view.

Off to his right sprawled an ancient oak, its twisted branches reaching up to the sky. It stood in the lee of a rolling hill, somewhat sheltered from the wind that swept over the undulating land. Near the tree was a crumbling stone wall that ran in Harry's direction. It was bolstered in places by slats of whitewashed wood that showed signs of being well maintained. The fence ended at a narrow stream and Harry eyeballed its course and decided it didn't run anywhere near the cave. The waterfall must have had a different source.

A sturdy stone wall, newer than the first, rose from the ground at his left and angled towards the centre of the island, following the natural curves of the land. As far as Harry could tell, most of the island lay inside the stone walls and he moved in a low crouch along the wall as quietly as possible, keeping his head below it as much as he could.

Before long, he spotted the slate roof of a sturdy house, its weathered stones appearing to sparkle in the sudden splash of sunlight. A wide porch surrounded three sides and the windows shone. A gravel path lined with flowers travelled to a broad lawn beyond which stood a spacious barn, its doors wide open.

Bleating from the other side of the wall drew Harry's attention and he rose slowly to peer over the wall at a green pasture dotted with mottled black sheep. He walked slowly along the wall until he came to a gate and, before he registered what he was doing, Harry ended the Disillusionment spell and stepped through it.

He found himself in a divided pasture. Thin wire fencing, nearly impossible to see from the southern end of the island, kept the herd confined to specific sections, though if there was a grand scheme in place, Harry couldn't figure it out. Each section had watering spots and some sort of feed set out, but with all that grass around Harry didn't quite see the point.

A series of bright steel gates caught his eye and his heart began to race when he discovered he was not alone. Harry propped his forearms on the fence, the lovely old stone house behind him, and hung his hands over the railing as his eyes drank in the sight of the man bent over a sheep that appeared to be standing in a shallow tub. A medium sized dog lounging a few feet away from the narrow chute suddenly sat up and, to Harry's eyes, it seemed to smile at him.

The man was thin with long dark hair tied at the nape of his neck. His nimble white fingers stood out against the sheep's black wool and moved surely from ear tag to shoulder. He turned his head and his lips moved; a quill danced over a journal that hovered nearby. The man turned away and lifted a gate and the sheep bolted through it and into the pasture to join its brethren.

A sharp whistle sounded, tu- _tweee_ , and the dog leapt to its feet and circled out wide before dropping into a crouch and stalking up to the herd on the far side of the chute. The man closed the gate and seconds later another sheep entered the pen, standing in the shallow tub where the first one had been.

A little bluish-grey dog trotted over to where Harry was standing, its smiling dark eyes regarding him steadily. It barked once, a sharp high-pitched sound, and wagged its long fluffy tail before trotting back to the pen where a dozen black sheep dotted the pasture. Thirty, forty, fifty sheep gathered in the shade of a majestic oak. Another twenty or so—Harry couldn't tell how many—grazed along a low stone wall. Other than the lighthouse, everything was as he expected it to be.

Except for the sheep.

Despite his conversation with Aberforth, Harry never expected to see Severus Snape tending sheep. The man was about as nurturing as a barracuda and to see him surrounded by woolly fluffy things was disconcerting. Worse, the sheep didn't seem to mind his presence. One by one they entered the chute, stood in the foot bath, suffered having their mouths opened and potions poured down their throats, were given an inoculation of some sort, and then went on their merry way without once putting up a fuss.

The last sheep sprang free and the man stood erect and turned. Harry's mouth went dry as their eyes met and his heart couldn't decide on a rhythm. Tears prickled behind his eyes and before he knew what he was doing, he was through the gate, his feet carrying him along faster and faster until he broke out in a run.

Harry was caught by strong arms and crushed against Snape's chest. His lips were captured in a hard, demanding kiss and he tasted the faint metallic tang of blood when a sharp tongue stabbed inside. A lip snagged on a tooth. His tooth? Snape's tooth? Harry didn't care. His cock surged and he pressed closer, feeling the sharp corner of Snape's belt buckle jab him just above his hip bone.

The kiss slowed, gentled from the first furious collision of teeth and tongues to a spine-melting caress that stole Harry's breath. Breathless, Snape held Harry away from him as his eyes moved slowly over Harry's body, noting without comment the Slytherin scarf, the leather jacket and fitted jeans.

"Make yourself useful, Potter," said Snape, his voice strangely thick. He strode over to a metal toolbox set near the foot bath and handed Harry a socket wrench. "We need to move all this to the barn. Then supper."

Harry nodded dumbly, unable to speak as he took the wrench. It had been five long years since Harry last laid eyes on the man, and the first thing out of his mouth was a demand for assistance. Any doubts that he had found Severus Snape vanished and Harry took the tool from Snape's hand, nearly breathless as heat flashed between them again.

The panels, he saw quickly, were held together with several bolts and, as Snape packed up all the medicinal supplies, Harry dismantled the chute. The work was surprisingly soothing and by the third panel, Harry was able to breathe normally again.

He glanced over from time to time, still not quite able to accept a Snape in Muggle clothing, but the denim jacket and well worn trousers suited the acerbic man. Snape still wore his clothes like armour, his heavy cambric shirt buttoned nearly to the top, his boots well over his ankles. But his skin glowed with good health and his relationship with the sun and fresh air had taken a decade off his appearance.

Once Snape had finished stowing away his supplies, he slid his ledger into a leather messenger bags and called his dogs to him. "Tess! Choice! With me." The two dogs came in from the fields at a fast clip and stood at Snape's heels, their ears up and their tails wagging as they waited for their next instruction.

Dogs. Sheep. It was nearly incomprehensible and Harry followed Snape into the barn as obediently as the dogs who trotted by his side, bringing sections of the fencing along with him. It took Harry's eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness and he stood in the doorway, uncertain what to do next and unwilling to let Snape out of his sight.

Snape unpacked his bag and stowed his ledger before pulling some treats out of a small pouch and giving them to the dogs. He petted them both fondly and then walked to where Harry still stood balancing sections of railing, his dark eyes feasting on Harry's mouth.

Seconds later, Harry found himself being kissed thoroughly, his skull cupped in Snape's strong hand as the other hand took control of part of the fencing. Snape nibbled on Harry's lower lip, drawing it into his mouth and sucking on it before releasing it to tease at Harry's lips with his tongue, and Harry felt himself moan. He reached for Snape and nearly let the gate fall. He gasped as he clutched at it and Snape chuckled into his mouth.

"Idiot boy," murmured Snape as he drew back to gaze into Harry's eyes. He stacked the fencing with some other panels identical to those Harry was gripping as though his life depended on it. "Had you turned your head but a little, you'd have seen where they belong."

"I was looking at you," replied Harry in a hush. He couldn't get his voice to work. In fact, the only parts of him that seemed functional were his eyes and his cock, now hard as steel and throbbing deliciously.

Snape returned and pried the next section of fencing out of Harry's hand and Harry felt his warm breath on his cheek. He turned his head slightly and once again, Snape claimed his mouth. One of the dogs barked and Harry jumped back nervously. It was one thing to have a dog bark when it was smiling at him; it was quite another when he wasn't certain where it was or whether it thought he was attacking its master.

Whirling, Snape gave a sharp whistle and pointed at the floor near his feet before pulling Harry hard against him, Harry's back to his front, and wrapping both arms around him. Instinctually, Harry pressed back against Snape's iron-hard length and shivered as gooseflesh rose over his body.

"Mine," growled Snape as both dogs planted their rear ends firmly on the floor and gazed expectantly up at him. "This one is mine." He nosed over the sensitive skin behind Harry's ear and nipped lightly on his earlobe. "You need not ever fear them."

It was hard to think when Snape's musky scent surrounded him and, with his knees turning to water, Harry was certain he'd fall over if Snape's strong arms weren't keeping him upright. "They think I'm one of your sheep?" he asked in a shaky voice that tried to be humorous.

"No," said Snape briskly, but he didn't explain what he meant. A hand came up and positioned Harry's head, tilting his face back and up for another bone-melting kiss.

They kissed their way from barn to house, tripping, stumbling, nearly falling on the path to the front door. Snape opened the door and they crashed through, still mouth-to-mouth, still fused at the hip. Harry peeled off his jacket and let it fall at his feet. His jumper followed in short order. "Where...?" he asked breathlessly, his eyes glued to Snape's slender form.

"Upstairs, to the right." Snape tossed his hat aside and tore off his jacket before launching himself at Harry once again. "Last door on the left." 

Harry's jumper came to rest on the third step; Snape's flannel shirt fluttered down to cover the sixth and seventh. Harry peeled off his t-shirt and discarded it near the top where Snape's joined it. He backed his way down the hall, kissing and touching as he went, his heart racing a million beats a minute. He'd found Snape! And Snape wanted him!

After falling through the doorway into a sunny bedroom, Harry tried to remove his boots and not stare at the promising bulge in Snape's jeans. His fingers shook so hard that untying them became a contest of wills and he snarled the incantation to a charm that forced the laces to cooperate. It wasn't often he had to resort to magic to get himself undressed, but he was grateful Ron had shown him the charm after sharing a story about boots and sex that nearly hadn't happened because Ron couldn't manage his laces—or his drink.

Once Harry's feet were finally bare, he stood up as his fingers flew to his belt. No more had he opened the button than he looked up at Snape. "I need you to know something first," he said in a ragged voice. "You ought to know what you're getting."

Snape's gaze burned Harry's skin, branding him wherever it touched. "And just what am I getting, Potter?" he asked in a voice smooth as honey. His left eyebrow quirked upwards as his eyes moved slowly down Harry's body.

"Well, you _do_ remember telling me not to find you straight away?" Harry swallowed as one of Snape's boots thunked to the floor and his mouth went dry. "Not 'til I'd lived a bit?" he continued, his voice suddenly roughened by a throat seized by anticipation.

The other boot dropped to the floor with a resounding thud. "I do recall writing those words to you, yes." Snape locked eyes with Harry and took a step forward, and Harry found himself backing up until the back of his knees hit the bed. "Having found me, having stumbled your way into my bedroom, what is of such importance that it cannot possibly wait until later?" Snape moved closer and Harry couldn't tell if the man was amused or exasperated. Knowing Snape, it was a bit of both. "I assure you I am versatile, so you need not concern yourself on that account."

Harry knew his cheeks were scarlet, but he couldn't look away. Not when Snape's worn jeans slid down well-shaped legs. Not when Snape stepped out of them. His erect cock was outlined by navy blue smalls and Harry felt his own cock take a hard twitch as a soft moan whispered out from traitorous lips. "Oh, god." He licked at lips gone suddenly dry and his arm came up, hand outstretched. "I've never...Merlin."

Snape stood quite still. "You've never...?"

"I've tried," Harry heard himself say, and suddenly words he never intended to say were spilling out. "I've really tried. I went to a couple of Muggle clubs in Manchester, thinking it would be a good idea to, you know, live a little. Two different places.

"It wasn't hard to find a bloke who was interested, and the first time it was a handjob in the loo, but when Kevin...I think his name was Kevin...wanted me to blow him and I looked up and he wasn't...I mean, I thought about it. Got him out and all, but...there had to be more to it than sucking a bloke off in the gents, so I lied and told him I had herpes and asked if he had a condom and, well, that was that, basically.

"And the second time I was at a different club with different blokes and we were dancing and kissing and feeling each other up and it was going better than with Kevin in the loo, until Davi asked me to go back to his flat and assured me it would be a one-off, no strings, just a quick fuck, and I couldn't stay the night. I went back home instead." Harry tore his gaze away from Snape's cock. "I tried to live. I tried to learn about..." He waved his hand back and forth between them. "You know, with other men, but I realised I couldn't. I'm not built for that."

There was a long moment of silence and Harry noticed Snape's interest start to wane as his anger rose. "For someone who is salivating at the sight of my prick and had his tongue in my mouth for the past few minutes, you will have to forgive me if I fail to find your refusal to accept your sexuality amusing, especially at my expense." He bent and snatched his jeans off the floor. 

"No!" Harry stepped forward, grabbed one leg and gave it a sharp tug, nearly managing to yank the trousers out of Snape's hand. "That's not what I'm trying...Look," he sighed as he reeled himself closer. "I'm not saying I'm straight. I'm not and I'm perfectly happy being gay. I'm saying..." His eyes dropped to the floor and followed the trail of their clothing out the door.

"Why are you here, Potter, if not for this? Why did you seek me out? My message was clear enough, even for an idiotic fool."

"I'm saying I can't do casual." Harry brought his eyes forward and met Snape's unreadable gaze. "I can't make a one-off work. The blokes I've met, and I've met a fair few, aren't you. When the club thing made my skin crawl, I tried going out on a few dates to see if I could make it work, but none of them have been anything like you. You can have me, but it's for keeps. That's what I'm trying to tell you. That's what you need to know."

Snape clutched his end of the jeans and stared, and a quiet corner of Harry's mind thought this was the most ridiculous way to have a conversation he could possibly imagine. "Are you telling me that in the six years since you've left Hogwarts you've somehow managed to remain a virgin?" demanded Snape.

"Technically, I suppose that's the right of it," replied Harry, wondering if Ron was right and he really didn't know how to be gay. "But I'm not ignorant, if that's what you're suggesting. I mean, you did provide a fairly explicit hint on how to go about things." Harry couldn't help it; his cheeks turned pink at the memory. 

"What on earth are you on about?" asked Snape. "At no point have I ever provided any student, not even those in my own House, with instruction beyond those lessons I was obligated to teach."

"You had to give the same 'how not to make a baby' lecture that McGonagall did?" And if Harry was looking for a way to kill a mood, it appeared he found one. "Merlin, she managed to make sex sound as appealing as dicing Flobberworms."

An expression of pure horror twisted Snape's face. "Naturally, I was expected to provide Slytherin House with guidance, unless you believe Hogwarts should become more of a nursery than it already is," he gritted. "Though I assure you there were very few in my House who required any tutelage in the mechanics of reproduction. I shudder to think of the instruction Minerva felt it necessary to provide if this is the outcome of her lessons. Flobberworms? Circe help us," he muttered.

If the amount his stomach was churning was any guide, Harry thought his complexion should be pale green by now. Snape was supposed to be his and Harry was surprised by how territorial he felt at the thought of Snape instructing anyone who wasn't him. "I told you I learnt what I needed to know from you, your diaries...and well, the other things you left behind."

"What other...?" Snape's voice trailed off and his eyes narrowed as memory took hold. "Yes, you would have made certain nothing remained in my old quarters." His semi-flaccid cock showed renewed interest and Harry's attention was fixed on the promising hard length barely contained within Snape's y-fronts.

One of them stepped closer, Harry wasn't certain who, and Snape tossed aside the blue jeans as the distance between them closed. Then they were in each other's arms, mouths slanting as they tried to devour each other.

Thoughts of McGonagall and schoolboy antics fled instantly. Harry's hand slid to the back of Snape's neck and he pressed his body against Snape's warm flesh, his hips arching upwards in search of contact. A sharp pang of desire speared him and he closed his eyes as his hands roamed over the expanse of Snape's bare back, mapping the contours and committing them to memory. He felt the tightly corded muscle under Snape's skin and ran his fingers down the slight bumps of Snape's spine and desire turned to desperation.

Harry moaned softly into the kiss as his hands fell away to push at his trousers, determined to see them off as soon as possible. He was here, Snape still wanted him even after his stupid declaration that he wouldn't do casual. He shimmied his hips and wiggled out of his trousers, nearly tripping himself in his haste to get out of them.

Snape reached out a steadying hand and kept Harry from toppling over. "It would have been a pleasure to undress you had you given me the opportunity," he said in a low voice that went straight to Harry's prick. "Slowly, Potter. If you were to leave wearing marks, I'd rather something else for you than bumps and bruises."

For a moment, Harry couldn't breathe. His hands trembled as they returned to the waistband of his y-fronts and he drew them down carefully over his erect cock as he peered through his lashes up at Snape. "I—yes," he stammered, not knowing what to say. He tried to gather his scattered thoughts as he stepped out of his pants, and then turned away to find somewhere to set his glasses, exhibiting to Snape a broad set of shoulders that tapered to a narrow waist. Hearing a sharp intake of breath, he smiled to himself, relieved that Snape found him at least passably attractive.

Lips pressed against his shoulder and followed the curve of his neck to the hollow behind his ear and he shivered. A hand, long and narrow, moved slowly over his stomach, the fingers splayed against his warm skin, and Harry tilted his head back to rest it against Snape's shoulder as frissons of excitement danced along his spine. As he reached back to cup Snape's neck, he turned his head and surrendered himself to another kiss.

Snape's left hand trailed along the contour of his hip, down into the cradle of his pelvis and skated along the thick nest of curls that framed his prick. Harry shifted, canting his hips upward as the back of Snape's fingers brushed along the topside of his cock. It twitched at the contact and Harry moaned.

"Whatever shall I do with you, Mr Potter?" Snape whispered and the warmth of Snape's breath against his ear pebbled Harry's skin. He pulled Harry hard against him and Harry released a low growl of pure pleasure at feeling Snape's length against the small of his back.

"Shag me, suck me, or let me suck you, though I reckon it won't be the best you've had," moaned Harry, his voice thick with lust. He turned inside the circle of Snape's arms. "Or let me..." He reached down and held their pricks together, his knees quivering so much he thought he'd been hexed. Pre-come spilled over his hand and he couldn't help but thrust against Snape.

"Greedy bugger." Snape pulled Harry's hand away as his head dipped down to claim another kiss, his tongue playing lightly along Harry's parted lips. "Get on the bed before you fall over and take me along with you." Despite the snappish tone, Snape's hands were gentle as he settled Harry in the centre of the large bed.

No matter how hard his heart was hammering, no matter how much his fingers trembled, Harry was determined to be a worthy bed-partner to Snape. He reached up and drew Snape to him, meeting him with questing hands and hungry kisses, but Snape pressed him back into the pillows and began laying hot, wet, open-mouthed kisses along Harry's skin. The bed creaked as Snape shifted his weight, straddling one of Harry's legs to rut lightly against his thigh.

Harry cried out and arched up when Snape bit down on a hardened nipple as he rolled the other between finger and thumb. In all the years he'd spent exploring his body and experimenting with his toys, it had never occurred to him to play with his nipples and he was stunned to learn that his were very sensitive. Snape dragged his tongue over the aching nub and then blew on it, amused when the hair on Harry's arms rose. "This is certainly something to keep in mind," he murmured as he set about torturing the other one.

"Snape," whimpered Harry raggedly as he rocked his hips, searching for something to grind against. "Severus...please."

"Please...what, my Harry?" returned Snape as he pinched and rolled Harry's nipples between his fingers. He kissed his way down Harry's sternum, biting, sucking, nibbling with teeth and lips, listening to Harry's soft cries and moans.

Harry clutched at Snape's back, scratching his way lightly up to Snape's shoulders, toying with the hair at the nape of Snape's neck. He dragged the sole of his foot over the back of Snape's leg, the soft down tickling him a bit, but it pulled his attention away from his throbbing prick. "Touch me...or something." Harry's eyes were glassy, his cheeks pink. His voice was breathy, as if he'd forgotten he needed air to form words.

Ignoring Harry's plea, Snape followed the line of Harry's hip, nibbling along the curve of Harry's hipbone and down along his inner thigh. His tongue laved over Harry's sac and a shudder ran through Harry's body when he began to suckle on a ball. A high keening sound filled the room and Snape's hands pinned Harry's hips to the bed as he licked a trail of fire along Harry's prick.

Harry threw his head back and buried his hand in Snape's hair, fighting to keep his hips still as Snape's mouth closed over the head of his cock, the warm, wet heat of Snape's mouth spreading through him like an inferno. The light suction on the tip was sending lightning to dance under his skin and Harry bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep from crying out.

He wasn't, as a rule, a loquacious lover—at least he'd never envisioned himself as such, but mixed along with the high pitched whimpers and guttural groans were pleas for relief and exaltation to deities he wasn't certain existed. He heard himself cry out, "Oh god, please Severus, please, god, oh fuck," and couldn't believe the words were coming from him, but the third time Snape sucked him down to the root, Harry shouted Snape's name and spilled in hot pulses that seemed to go on forever.

Snape swallowed greedily and pulled off only when Harry's prick stopped throbbing. "Now that that's out of the way..." he said in a low voice roughened by sex. He kneeled up, grasped Harry's legs and flipped him onto his belly.

"What...?"

"We're not finished yet, not by a long shot." Snape straddled Harry's hips and once satisfied that Harry was comfortable, began kneading the muscles of Harry's shoulders and upper back. 

Still floating in the afterglow of orgasm, it took Harry a moment to recognise that, at some point, Snape had begun using some sort of oil or lotion on his skin. The man's hands were masterful, moving over his skin in long, firm strokes, working out the tension in his shoulders Harry hadn't realised he was carrying, but as Snape worked his way lower, Harry's cock began to lengthen and fill and by the time Snape reached the top of Harry's hips, Harry was undulating slowly beneath him. 

"Is this what you want, Harry?" asked Snape in a low voice, his hands stilling at the small of Harry's back. In response, Harry spread his legs and craned his head back to gaze at Snape over his shoulder.

"Since the day I learnt what men did together," replied Harry solemnly. "And the only one I've wanted it with is you." He drew his knees up under him, resting his chest on the mattress, and presented himself to Snape.

Though he knew what to expect, Harry had never felt anyone's touch other than his own, had never had anything in his body except his own fingers or one of the few toys he used to pleasure himself, so the sharp frisson of electricity that ran through him when Snape's finger grazed over his hole was as much a surprise to him as it was a pleasure to Snape. He pushed back, hard, at the gentle touch. "Sorry! Sorry," he exclaimed, his hand going automatically to his cock.

Snape drew Harry's hand to the small of his back. "First, you have nothing to apologise for. Second, you will not touch yourself. I am not in the habit of leaving my partners wanting and as much as it might come as a surprise, I do not intend to start with you.

"That having been said," continued Snape, "I will trust that you will respect my wishes and keep your hand away from your delightful prick. Have I your word?"

"Yes, yes! Whatever you want." At this point, Harry would have agreed to anything if it meant Snape would return to touching him again, especially _there_. It was remarkable how much a single touch from another man, this man in particular, ignited the fires in his blood. He moved his hand slowly and laced his fingers together in front of his head, resting his cheek against his forearm.

Snape rewarded his compliance with another light touch, stroking his finger slowly again and again over Harry's quivering entrance. "You said you are not ignorant. What have you experienced?" He draped himself over Harry's back and began dropping kisses in a meandering line over Harry's back.

A fingertip worked its way inside Harry as he struggled to form words. "Well, I—I have a small vibrator I'm a bit fond of, a—and a...a dildo," he whispered. His cheeks burned and his couldn't stop his hips from drawing small circles. There was a murmured spell and Harry felt slick between the globes of his arse. "Wh—what? How?"

"After all these years, I should think you would know about the wonders of magic. It's a simple spell to lubricate you and help relax the muscles here." Snape slid his finger in to the last knuckle and crooked it lightly, barely touching the small nub inside. 

Harry dropped his head and moaned softly as delightful tingles ran along his scalp. "Yes. Yes yes yes yes yes," he chanted. "Merlin, anything you want." 

Snape slowly worked Harry open and as he did, he didn't ignore the other delectable parts of Harry's body. As his right hand busied itself stretching Harry, he curved his left hand and scratched lightly over Harry's back, over his nipples, along his cock. He moved with Harry's undulating body.

"Turn onto your back," instructed Snape quietly. "I wish to see your face.”

Harry rolled over and hooked his hands behind his knees, pulling them back to leave ample room for Snape. He stared up and gazed into smouldering dark eyes that laid bare every secret he'd ever held close to his heart. He felt the pressure of the blunt head of Snape's prick against his entrance and pushed against it. As Snape breached him, he released a long, slow breath, his lips curving into a beatific smile.

"Ever since I found that red dressing gown in your wardrobe I've wanted it to be you," breathed Harry. "You feel so good. Please, Severus, love me."

Snape stared for a long moment, and then dipped his head to claim Harry's lips in a demanding kiss as he buried himself to the hilt. He drew out slowly as his tongue explored Harry's mouth. "As I have for years," he said before sinking back into the tight heat of Harry's body.

They locked their eyes as they moved together, the bright green of Harry's irises nearly swallowed whole by pupils blown wide. The room appeared bright, the evening sun streaming through the windows, the gauzy curtains moving softly with the slight breeze. The heady scent of sweet musk filled the air and their song of pleasure sang through parted lips. 

Behind Snape's back, Harry hooked his ankles together, trying to pull Snape deeper into his body. He rolled his hips in time with each thrust, riding Snape's cock as it moved within him. He arched up and was rewarded with the head of Snape's prick rubbing lightly over his prostate and for a brief beautiful moment, Harry thought he would die from sheer bliss.

Snape's pace quickened, his hips snapping hard, and he reached between them to palm Harry's cock, dragging his thumb over the sensitive tip. Harry felt his pleasure explode through him. He painted Snape's hand with his seed and felt it splash hot over his skin. A second later, Snape gave a harsh cry and spilled deep inside, stilling as his cock pulsed and pulsed. 

It was a few minutes before they separated, a few minutes of soft touches and softer kisses. A few minutes where Snape smoothed away a sweaty lock of Harry's hair and Harry traced Snape's features with the tip of his finger. Harry couldn't stop looking, couldn't keep from drinking in the sight of his first lover. As soon as he could, he would put this moment in a Pensieve, to relive again and again.

Snape withdrew with a soft groan tinged lightly, it seemed, with regret. He turned onto his side and pulled Harry against him, nosing over Harry's ear, breathing in the scent of him. He slid his hand down Harry's arm and laced his fingers through Harry's and closed his hand tightly.

"Ow," groaned Harry softly and pulled his hand out from within Snape's and shook it out. He twisted the gold band that encircled his ring finger and wiggled his fingers a bit. The ring had caught a bit of skin and pinched hard when Snape squeezed.

Snape grabbed Harry by the wrist and stared at his hand. "What is that?" he asked in a tone so glacial Harry could nearly see frost from Snape's breath. 

"What is...oh." Harry's stomach turned over and he pushed himself up onto his elbow and stared at his hand, wondering where to begin. While he knew this conversation had to happen, this was not the time he would have chosen for it. "It's not what you think. Well, it probably _is_ what you think, but not like you're thinking it is. It's my wedding ring."

The expression on Snape's face made Harry think of jars of cockroaches exploding behind his head and Harry had no idea whether Snape was about to hit him, hex him, or throw him bodily out of the house. Snape hurled himself from the bed, anger twisting his face. "Get out. Now," he snarled as he yanked the duvet off the bed and covered himself with it.

"Would you just lis—"

"Now, Potter! Get out of my sight!" Snape's crazed eyes darted around the room and Harry wasn't certain if the man was searching for his wand or deciding which of the many objects nearby would make the best projectile. Harry sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, his hands gripping the edge of the mattress and presented his back to Snape. He took a deep breath and released it slowly.

"The last time I saw that expression on your face I ran like hell," said Harry quietly, his tone desolate. "But I'm not fifteen anymore and I'm going to say my piece. If you still want me to leave after that, I will, and I promise I'll never set foot here again." He waited, hoping that Snape wouldn't drag him bodily through the door and hurl him down the stairs.

Silence pressed down on them and the sun chose that moment to vanish behind a cloud. The room darkened, turned grey as though someone had just dragged a shroud over the day and pronounced it hopeless. "I'm listening."

"Six years ago," began Harry when he could no longer bear the quiet. "I spent a summer in the dungeons of Hogwarts learning some hard truths about myself. Five years ago, Ginny and Hermione finished Hogwarts, and Ron and Hermione got married, and I started to read your diaries for the second time. Four years ago, I finished Auror Training and started working for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Three years ago, Ginny and I got married." He risked a glance over his shoulder and met Snape's forbidding stare.

"If I'd been Anthony Goldstein or Zacharias Smith I wouldn't have been married. I'd be just another wizard living his life without the eyes of the entire country on him, but I'm not. I'm Harry Potter and everything that goes along with that name, so I decided—"

"Undoubtedly with the Know-It-All's assistance—"

"That I would be in charge of my public face," continued Harry. "Let the public see their Golden Boy and his beautiful wife whenever and wherever they were expected to appear." Harry rose from the bed, slid his glasses on and faced Snape. "Ginny and I attend Ministry functions together. We appear at the right events. On my days off, I'm seen regularly in the Family Box for the Holyhead Harpies matches. We're the perfect couple and the _Prophet_ love us.

"Three people..." His brow furrowed and he paused. "Four people in Wizarding Britain know I'm gay. Three of them know I've been searching for you since the day after my wedding. Ginny is one of them. Ron and Hermione are the others. Ginny knows where I am right now—"

Snape growled and it made the hair on the back of Harry's neck rise.

"Not specifically where I am, just that I'm Questing," he amended hastily. "She knows that I'm in your bed, or hoping to be. She knows that it's likely I won't be home until tomorrow and she'll cover for me."

The lines on Snape's face appeared to soften and some of the fire left his eyes, but the contempt was still noticeable in the tilt of his head and the curl of his upper lip. "And what will they say when they learn their boy hero has been conducting tawdry affairs with other men?"

Harry shrugged. "Nothing kind, but I reckon it won't be much worse than fifth year, when they all thought I was a nutter or sixth year when they started with all that 'Chosen One' shite." He walked around the foot of the bed, coming as close to Snape as he dared. "It's a marriage of convenience, Severus, in name only. We've not bonded; hell, we've never consummated the bloody thing. I've slept in the same bed with her a grand total of eight times in three years, and most of those have been at the Burrow.

"You need to know that Ginny and I have an agreement. We both knew this was going to end one of three ways: she'd get caught with her lover, I'd be outed, or we'd reach the end of our five-year agreement. But I've found you before the five years were up, so once you and I've come to some arrangement—"

"And what arrangement might that be?" demanded Snape, though his eyes had calmed and the lines of his body were less rigid than they'd been a moment ago.

"Some arrangement," said Harry cagily. "Ginny and I will announce our divorce on the grounds of my sexuality. I'll be out and the public will have to deal with it."

Snape laughed, a cruel mocking sound that tore at Harry's hear. "Even now, you are still hiding behind your celebrity. Have you any idea how the Wizarding world treats those of us who are bent, Potter? We live our lives in disgrace, unable to hold our heads up for fear of being beaten down, of bringing the mob to tear us to bits.

"Why do you think your precious Weasleys have been so determined to keep your secret? Do you think they want the shame of your perversion to besmirch their good name?" He drew closer until his face was inches from Harry's. "When you 'come out' as you say, you will quickly find that you are a pariah. The Weasleys will distance themselves from you. The Auror Corps will suddenly discover that they have an urgent need to reorganise their records room—"

"They do have an urgent need to—"

"You won't last a year," snarled Snape. "They will find a reason to let you go, if they don't manage to get you killed first."

Harry stared. "Where is all of this coming from? Has it been so long since you've been a part of the Wizarding world that it's passed you by? I won't deny it's hard being out, but it's getting better. Muggles can enter into civil unions and the Wizengamot is scheduled to take the matter up next year."

Snape's eyebrows rose and he blinked, appearing so astonished by the news that Harry very nearly laughed. "I tend my sheep, Potter. I brew when I have time and supply the Cooperative with wool for spinning. I had enough of politics when I was at Hogwarts and I've minded my own business since settling here."

An amused smile played around Harry's lips and he laid his hand against Snape's cheek, moving his thumb slowly along Snape's cheekbone. "And you read the _Prophet_ , or you did. You knew that the Weird Sisters had split up at least, and I can't imagine that the only bit of Wizarding news you've followed is pop culture." The grin broke loose and Harry pressed up and kissed Severus lightly. "And if that's going to be your claim, then you've known all along that Ginny and I are married and this is nothing more than a misguided attempt to gain some distance."

"I'm not the person making a mockery of your marriage," snarled Snape, but there was no heat behind it. It was as though the words sprang from force of habit, as though bitterness and cynicism were but a force of habit. "And no, I did not know you had wed the inestimable Ms Weasley."

Harry laced his fingers behind Snape's neck and kissed him again and again and again until he felt Snape's arms go around him and felt the tension bleed away. "Ginny and I both made a mockery of our marriage since the very first day. My only regret is that real people will be devastated when we announce it's over."

"If I might make a suggestion," said Snape as he led Harry back to the bed. "Start with Arthur and Bill. Of all the Weasleys, they're the most level-headed, or so my experience has been. Be truthful. Be respectful, and accept as due course that they will be angered by the deception." Snape pulled Harry into his arms and settled him against him. "Do not announce your separation until you've spoken to everyone important to you."

"You're the first to know," said Harry quietly. "The most important person to know. I expect Ginny is planning to tell her boyfriend the next time she sees him." Harry pulled off his glasses and tossed them aside before resting his head in the hollow of Snape's shoulder.

"We've imagined it for years. Who we would tell, how they would take it." Harry was silent for a moment. "Right now, though, for the first time since the War ended, I'm happy. I know it won't last long. I know Ginny and I are in for a rough few months, but if I can come back here, if we can see each other—"

"And do what, Potter?"

Harry tilted his head back to meet Snape's gaze. "Shag like rabbits?" Harry grinned when Snape snorted. "I meant what I said. I'd like to see you. Have supper with you. Help with the sheep. I'm a fair hand at knocking boards together and I'm decent enough with a paintbrush. I'd like to be your friend, Severus, and if we end up here, more's the better."

"Is that where you're setting your sights then? On friendship?"

Friendship was not what Harry had in mind, though he knew that it would form the basis of any long-term relationship between them. He'd seen enough examples in his short life to realise that the couples he admired were friends first. "I already said I can't do casual. I plan to be here as much as my schedule allows." He gave Snape an uncertain smile. "Or as often as you'll let me."

He felt Snape's foot rub slowly along his leg and Snape nuzzled over his hair. A cool hand moved over his heated skin and Harry burrowed in closer. "You read my diaries. You know that I've had few relationships during my life. You know that you've grown into the sort of man I've always found...enticing."

"I want to stay here," admitted Harry. "I want to learn about sheep and how you ended up with a herd—"

"Flock. A group of sheep is a flock. Or a mob, particularly if one is driving them somewhere they do not wish to go."

"You're a shepherd, so it's a herd of sheep, replied Harry impudently, earning for himself a light swat on his arse and a kiss that grew hungrier by the second. He found himself being pulled on top of Snape and he wriggled down until their cocks were nestled together.

He moved slowly, nearly positive he didn't have another orgasm in him, but Harry craved the contact with this frustrating, complex, wonderful man. "I'd like to get to know you," he murmured softly, "without the past hanging over us. I just want to be Harry and if that means quitting the Auror Corps and learning about sheep, then that's what I'll do."

Snape reached up to try to smooth a lock of hair back into place despite knowing such an effort to be futile. Harry turned his head to kiss his palm. "I do not wish to see you resign from the Department. You are happy there."

"I'm happy _here_ ," insisted Harry.

"You can't know that," said Snape softly as his hands travelled slowly over Harry's bare flesh. "You've found me; despite being told to live first, you've not done that. And let us not forget that you are married. Provided you can assure me that the world and the _Prophet_ will not be beating a path to my door in the coming months, you may come and go as you please. We should know by the year's end whether we can tolerate each other enough to give consideration to our future."

"But you can imagine a future, right?" persisted Harry.

To Harry's dismay, Snape gave him a brief kiss and rolled out from under him. "Your first lesson commences now. It is going on eight o'clock. The sheep need to be brought in, the dogs need to be fed and supper's not started. Life on a farm is not a leisurely endeavour, Harry. It's hard work and it allows little time for anything else."

"Then I suggest we get started," said Harry cheerfully. "I'll cook since I've no idea how to do the rest."

Snape tossed Harry his trousers. "You'll come with me and learn."

~*~

The Burrow appeared as it always had done, a topsy-turvy warren of haphazardly created rooms spinning off the drunkenly winding staircase wherever it seemed appropriate to create one at the time. The spacious kitchen with its long trestle table took up half of the ground floor and the living area, complete with Floo-sized fireplace, occupied the rest. Tucked away in a corner was a tiny parlour where Harry had once sat with Ron and Hermione whilst Rufus Scrimgeour interrogated them about the motivations behind Dumbledore's Last Will and Testament.

Harry was no more comfortable now than he had been then.

He paced around the small room and wiped his sweating hands on his robes, wishing he'd chosen someplace less confining to have this conversation. He had taken half of Snape's advice, choosing to speak directly to Arthur, but with Molly only an outcry away it seemed unlikely that the discussion would remain between the two of them. 

He wondered again if he shouldn't have brought Ginny with him. They'd discussed it endlessly, but Harry felt strongly that since the state of their marriage was his fault, it was his place to convey the news to Arthur and Molly. No one had agreed with him, but having dealt with Harry stubbornness on more than one occasion, the others decided to let him have it his way.

"The last time you asked to speak with me privately," said Arthur as he entered the room carrying a pair of tumblers and a bottle of Firewhisky, "you asked me to search Lucius Malfoy's house for Dark objects." He studied Harry critically for a moment. "You were more at ease then than you are now." To Harry's surprise, Arthur cast a Silencing charm before pouring a full measure into each glass. "Sit, and we'll talk."

Glass in hand, Harry sat alone on the couch and faced his father-in-law. He'd always liked Arthur and found him to be a decent and fair man, but Harry had no idea what to expect. He gulped down the whisky, the searing heat burning a path to his gullet bringing tears to his eyes. It was only fitting. He coughed and cleared his throat, and then said, "There's no easy way to say this, so I'll just come out with it." He risked a glance into Arthur's blue eyes and dropped his head.

"Ginny and I are getting a divorce."

The words filled the room and Harry felt the weight of them pressing down on every inch of his body. His throat closed off and his eyes began to burn. As he reached for his glass, he noticed his hands beginning to shake, and the silence from Arthur was deafening. To his mortification, tears began to spill down his cheeks and it took all of his self-control not to sob.

"A...a divorce?" said Arthur in a near whisper. "You and Ginny?"

Harry nodded his head slightly as the tears continued to fall. Oh, this hurt. It hurt nearly as much as Fred, as Lupin and Tonks. As Dobby and Hedwig. Even though he'd known it was coming since he first said 'I do', the pain at the death of his marriage took him by surprise.

"But you and Ginny seem so happy. I don't understand, Harry. If the two of you were having difficulties, why didn't you come to us?"

The bewilderment in Arthur's tone broke Harry's heart and it took him a long time before he was able to regain his composure enough to speak. "It's my fault, sir. You have to believe it's my fault." He turned stricken eyes on Arthur and pleaded silently for him to understand.

Arthur clutched his glass and took a tentative sip. "Are...are you having an affair?" he asked thickly, as if unwilling to believe Harry could stoop so low. "Ginny is gone so often and for such long periods of time..." His voice trailed off and he suddenly became unable to meet Harry's eyes.

"No," said Harry. "Well..." His brow furrowed and his breathing grew erratic. "No," he repeated and his voice hitched. "It's..." He swallowed heavily and wheezed a bit. "It's just that...it's not because of Ginny...I just..." He gave a strangled laugh that was so close to a sob that it was hard to tell the difference. "I'm gay," he whispered.

This was not how Harry wanted to announce his sexual orientation. He had it all mapped out in his mind, had rehearsed it a thousand times, but sitting here with Arthur, feeling the weight of his wedding ring as a lie around his heart, he could, at that moment, barely cope with his own self-loathing.

Arthur's eyes widened and his jaw dropped. "I beg your pardon?" and it was all too clear that Harry's words made absolutely no sense to him. "I...but...what did you say?"

"I'm gay. I'm not...women don't...it's not Ginny. It's all of them. Any of them. Even Fleur," he said miserably. "Bill and Charlie figured it out. And Ginny's known for years."

An icy stillness followed Harry's explanation. "I see," said Arthur, the disappointment in his voice ringing as clear as a tenor bell calling mourners to a funeral. "Did you know this when you married my daughter?"

Harry nodded. "We both did." He already felt drained dry, as though he'd just concluded a long and unsatisfying encounter with a Dementor and he wished he could cling to Snape's hand for moral support. At that moment he was willing to concede that Ginny had been right and that he should not have done this alone. "It's only ever been a marriage in name only. We've never, uhh, you know."

"You lied to us. You and Ginny both," said Arthur finally. He pulled out his handkerchief and blew his nose and his gaze was so reproachful that Harry thought he'd do anything to erase it from Arthur's face. "I imagine Ronald knows, and if he knows, so does Hermione. The four of you all conspiring against us rather than trusting us to protect you as we've done since you were children."

"You couldn't protect me. Not from being Harry Potter." Harry took another drink and stared at his feet. "I never wanted to be the Boy Who Lived. I didn't want to be the one to destroy Voldemort, but he murdered my parents and like Dumbledore said, I would have wanted to kill him just for that." Removing his spectacles, he scrubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands.

Bleary green eyes met Arthur's confused face. "You can't protect me from being who I am. And I wasn't ready to be what I am. I mean, I know one other gay wizard. That's it. One. And how long could I hide something like that?" Harry ran his hand through his hair causing it to stand in every direction.

"Every time I'm out in public, the _Prophet's_ there with their cameras and reporters, taking pictures and shouting questions at us. It was hard enough for Ginny and she knew what she was walking into. Can you imagine how much worse it would be trying to date a bloke and keep all that hidden? Ginny and I spent months working it out before the wedding and we've covered for each other ever..." He broke off suddenly, his eyes widening when he realised what he'd just said.

Arthur drew back and the first sign of anger appeared on his face. "You've covered for Ginny? In what respect?" he asked slowly and there was something about the determined set of Arthur's jaw that persuaded Harry that it would be a very bad idea to try to wiggle his way out of this.

Harry shifted uncomfortably and glanced towards the doorway, half-expecting Molly to come bursting through even though he knew Arthur had made such an eventuality unlikely. "Look," he said at last, "I know you're..." he fished about for an appropriate word, "concerned about how this is going to affect Ginny. The thought has occurred to both of us, but I came here today to tell you that Ginny and I are splitting up and the reason for it has nothing to do with her."

"Yet you've been covering for her," said Arthur. "We raised Ginny to know right from wrong, to be honest, to stand up for herself and her beliefs, to be true to herself and accept that actions have consequences. And now you tell me she has sacrificed her integrity for your convenience."

The acid in Harry's stomach churned and he thought he was about to sick up. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "We didn't think it would—"

"You didn't think, Harry. You acted as you've always done, without any consideration for others. You, Ron and Hermione, always holding onto your secrets so tightly. What did you think would happen when you finally made a clean breast of things?"

"I thought you'd understand why we did it," said Harry, misery carving furrows in his forehead. "Being married solved a lot of problems for Ginny and me and none of us thought the world was ready for Harry Potter to be a pouf. I'm still not ready. There are times when walking into the clearing seems easier than this. At least the Killing Curse doesn't hurt, not the way this does," he muttered. Tears welled up again and he was too drained to do anything but let them fall.

The intensity of Arthur's gaze left Harry feeling raw, but he couldn't bring himself to meet Arthur's eyes. Every time he tried he felt his gaze skitter away like a beetle searching out the darkest corner in which to hide. The shame of his actions made him feel covered in filth and he recognised he'd been wallowing in it for a very long time.

"I know a few queer witches and wizards, though when I was at Hogwarts, we never spoke of it. But times are changing and we've no choice but to change along with it. I like to think of myself as an open-minded sort. I've tried to be a friend to half-bloods and Muggleborns. I've never held what a man is against him, but tried only to judge him by his actions.

"I trusted you, Harry, as did Molly, and you've betrayed that trust, and whilst I am trying my best to understand how difficult it must be to be...that way, I cannot help but be deeply hurt and terribly disappointed that you and Ginny ever thought we'd be happier with a pleasant lie than a difficult truth." Arthur cleared his throat and continued in a thick voice. "I think you'd best leave now, Harry. I am going to try to explain all this to your mother-in...to Molly and it's probably best you not be here for it."

Harry stood and stumbled blindly towards the door, wanting nothing more than to curl up in his old cupboard under the stairs and keep the world at bay. He pulled his wand and cancelled Arthur's charms, but as he crossed the threshold he felt a tug on his arm. He started to turn and found himself gathered in Arthur's arms.

"I cannot let you leave without reminding you that you are loved," Arthur whispered against Harry's hair. "You are family, and always will be."

The guilt was crushing and only worsened when Harry heard Molly's voice. "Harry? Whatever is the matter, dear?"

Harry stepped back and turned towards Molly, exhibiting a tear-streaked face, red-rimmed eyes and runny nose. Taking the handkerchief Molly seemingly conjured out of thin air, he blew his nose and Vanished the mess. He caught Arthur's eye and gave a brief nod of his head. "I'll do it," he said quietly and led Molly back into the room he'd just exited.

~*~

"So how'd Mum take the news?" asked Ron uneasily as he watched Harry toss back his third gin and tonic since he'd walked through the Floo.

"R'member wha' a banshee sounds like?" slurred Harry as he sloshed more gin into his glass. He dropped an ice cube into the gin and another one beside it onto the sideboard. The lime wedge shot out from between his fingers and more of the tonic water went around the glass than into it. Harry tossed back the contents of that in a single gulp before staggering over to the couch and falling into it.

As a rule, Harry was an orderly drunk, his movements tending towards very precise rather than slopping, spilling, and slurring his words as he was doing now. Then again, Ron had never seen Harry get thoroughly pissed until now either, so it was hard to say how a blindingly intoxicated Harry behaved.

"She doesn't believe I'm bent. She wan's gran'kids and she wan's Ginny to have 'em. 's not gonna happen 'less Ginny grows a dick." Harry stared blearily at his glass, barely noticing when Hermione joined him on the sofa. "I've not heard Molly yell like that since second year and Arthur..." He sucked on an ice cube for a moment before spitting it back into his glass. "I cried like a fucking baby."

"Oh, Harry," murmured Hermione whilst Ron tried to appear appropriately sympathetic. The last time either of them could remember seeing Harry cry was immediately after Sirius died. He hadn't even wept at Fred's memorial; they'd all been so shell-shocked that tears were beyond them.

"I jus' din't know it'd hurt so much," said Harry with a catch in his throat. "They told me they still love me." Harry thought he was all cried out, but his tear ducts had other plans.

In the end, even Ron was misty-eyed and his eyes widened with incredulity. "Did you think they wouldn't?" He rocked back as if struck at Harry's small nod and he blinked furiously to keep his own tears at bay. "It doesn't work like that, mate," he said in a choked voice. "Mum and Dad have loved you since you were twelve." He locked eyes with his wife and gazed helplessly at her.

"We've known this day was coming for years," said Hermione with the practicality for which she was famous. "We need to have—"

The Floo flared and she whipped her head around to find Ginny stepping through. "Nothing quite says 'I love you' like a Howler during sex," she remarked as she strode into the living room. Hands on hips, she looked at three of the most woebegone faces she'd seen since the Wemborne Wasps were relegated to the Regulars division. "I've been ordered to the Burrow to 'explain myself.' I need a drink."

"I'm sorry," said Harry. It felt like the only thing he'd done all day was apologise to the people who meant the most to him. It was only fitting that Ginny be included.

"Don't you _dare_ apologise to me, Harry Potter," said Ginny fiercely. "Don't you dare." She growled a sigh and stormed into the kitchen. Cupboards slammed and glassware rattled. Liquid glugged from a bottle and there was the distinctive sound of a knife thwacking onto a cutting board.

Ginny walked into a silent room. "Anyone here who thought Mum and Dad wouldn't be completely hacked off wasn't raised a Weasley." She settled onto the couch next to Harry and arched a brow at his red, swollen eyes. "You weren't this wrecked the day you told me you're gay." She leaned over and kissed his cheek.

"You took the news better, Gin," said Harry. "I mean, yeah, you slapped me pretty hard, but Ron and I both thought you'd go for your wand and of the two, I'd rather you punch me than hit me with one of your hexes."

"And you were the one who thought you and Harry should go ahead with the wedding," said Ron.

"Hermione is the one who came up with all the reasons why it was a good idea," argued Ginny. "And it was. Harry and I had dates for all the Ministry and Quidditch functions. The _Prophet_ had its golden couple." She pulled a face which Hermione matched almost perfectly. The two women exchanged understanding looks.

"One of them, at any rate," groused Ron. "Fortunately, the _Prophet_ doesn't find the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures to be nearly as sexy as professional Quidditch."

"Well, to be fair, mos' people would rather read 'bout Ginny putting up forty points against Muddlepeer than the arguments for and against donor regist-whatevers for werewolves," said Harry.

"Vampires," corrected Hermione. "And you're completely pissed."

A beatific smile spread across Harry's lips and he nodded. "I am. Least I don't work tomorrow." He frowned. "Leas', I hope not." He looked around and tried to get his eyes to focus on one face at a time, but they all blurred together. "Do we have a plan?"

Ginny slammed back her drink and met Ron's gaze with determined resolve. "I'm going to tell Mum and Dad the truth, that I'm in love with Thierry, but I'm not planning to settle down until I'm finished playing and _if_ I decide to have children, I'll be the one who chooses when." Her eyes cut sideways and a lascivious grin appeared. "When do we get to hear about Snape?"

"Severus," purred Harry, pulling the word through his lips until it wrapped around his skin like velvet. "My Severus." He leaned his head back against the cushion and closed his eyes, remembering the feel of the man moving so surely inside him. "I swear I'd have his babies if I could."

Ron screwed up his face whilst Ginny and Hermione laughed. "Ugh. No, mate. Just...ewwwww."

"He is a Potions Master. Maybe he can brew up some specialised Polyjuice so you can," teased Ginny. "I'd pay a few Galleons to see you out to here with a baby in your belly." She held her arms out in a wide circle as Ron shuddered. Harry laughed.

"He's a shepherd now, living by hisself on an island with two dogs, a cat, and about a million black sheep."

"You mean he doesn't brew?" asked Hermione, her eyes round as saucers. "Professor Snape? 'Brew glory, bottle fame, put a stopper in death' Snape? It defies comprehension. Surely you must be mistaken."

Harry cracked open a puffy red eye and started to lift his head off the cushion before thinking better of it. "I saw th' sheep, Hermione." A blissful smile appeared. "And I saw him naked. Merlin, he has the most beautiful prick. Could've shagged him for days." He drew the last word out until it was at least a fortnight long.

"You shagged Snape?" blurted Ron. "You?" He huffed out a breath and exchanged a look of surprise with Hermione.

With some effort, Harry lifted his head off the couch and attempted to focus on Hermione. Ginny was closer, though, so he directed his question to her. "Would you say you've shagged Thierry a time or two?" he asked as archly as his inebriated state would allow.

"More like a hundred or two," said Ginny with a laugh. "What?" she demanded when Ron pulled a face. "I like sex. I'd like to think Hermione does as well, but with you as a partner...."

Colour exploded across Ron's face as Hermione tried her best to squelch a giggle. "Your brother's not at all bad—and that's as much as I'll say...here." The grin she flashed Ginny promised much, much more. "Suffice it to say, Harry and Snape shagged, and that's as much as we need to know. The rest is private, as it should be."

Harry leaned in her direction and managed to right himself before he toppled over. "He fucked me senseless," he confided in a whisper that managed to fill the room. For a moment he appeared joyous, then the tears started again and he stared at Hermione, bewildered by his own reaction. If anyone could help him sort out his roiling emotions, it was her.

But it was Ron who sat himself down next to Harry and pulled him into his arms. "Sometimes a bloke just needs to cry a bit is all. And if anyone has earned it, it's you."

Seven years of being tormented by a Dark wizard. Five more years of coming to terms with his sexuality. Three years of deceiving the people he loved beyond words. Three years of searching for a man he wasn't certain wanted him. Finally stepping out and being accepted for who he was and becoming a bitter disappointment for what he'd done. Missing Snape so much it was a physical ache deep inside. The dam had to burst eventually.

Harry was so ashamed he could barely stand to meet Ron's eyes. He'd painted a rosy picture of his life on rotten canvas, but now the pigment was flaking off and all the rips and tears were showing through. And this was just the beginning. The _Prophet_ would be on him like a Dementor on happiness. He didn't know if he was strong enough to walk the path he'd mapped for himself.

Ever since the end of the War, he'd tried to appease the Wizarding world as if it were a proud hippogriff and all he need do was bow low and show the back of his neck to earn its respect. But after suffering Arthur and Molly's condemnation, feeling their disappointment as acutely as the Cruciatus Curse, he knew now the Wizarding world would turn on him in a heartbeat, tearing him to pieces with their sharpened talons. Worse, in their haste to tear him down, they'd run roughshod over the Weasleys, the only family he had. 

Ginny rubbed his back whilst Ron allowed Harry to sob all over him. Someone removed his glasses and he heard voices murmuring softly, but he couldn't make out the words. He wasn't certain he wanted to. He thought he heard Snape's name mentioned a time or two and felt such longing that he keened as though wounded. He thought he understood longing and realised that not even Sirius' death had taught him what loneliness was like. In a flash of insight, he knew that he was terrified of what tomorrow would bring.

He closed his eyes and by the time his breathing evened out, Harry was asleep.


End file.
